


Your Weak Young Heart

by erintoknow



Series: Aria [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Found Family, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Origin Story, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: A new life, a new identity, this is your chance to finally be yourself. Assuming you can even figure out who that is. Unfortunately you have only a limited supply of the drug that makes living your specific 'gifts' bearable, and given who exactly you're running from it's absolutely critical you keep a low profile.Don't make friends.Don't be memorable.Don't be something you're not.
Relationships: Sidestep & Original Female Character (Fallen Hero)
Series: Aria [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399939
Comments: 40
Kudos: 23





	1. Miss Alex

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, All through Nanowrimo (Nov 2019) I was itching to go back and revisit/revise the very first fic I wrote for this series now that I have some idea of what I was doing.  
> So... I did that.  
> And...it grew in size. Swallowing the next three fics chronologically in order to make a nice origin story arc. So... here we go!!!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ Human / Machine ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yg9Vd-TDxoo)]

17 April, 2007

Hot, humid air buffets your face as you step off the bus. Chelsea follows behind you, hopping off from the second-to-last step. Really shouldn’t have let this go on as long as it has. And yet–

Chelsea pumps her fist in the air. “We made it!” She takes a deep breath and and then makes a face, coughing hard with a hand pressed to her chest. “Ugh, Jesus Christ. Smells like something you could get high off of out here.” Once she regains her composure she jerks a thumb back towards the bus, “I better grab my suitcase. I’ll be back in a second.”

Scanning the crowd of people radiating out from the bus depot, no one else pays you any mind. You might as well not even exist, if it wasn’t for this strange woman that latched onto you at the station in San Francisco. What on earth does she see in you? Your grey sweatpants and hoodie hang loose on your frame, a forest green beanie pulled tight over your head down to the ears covers your hair.

Chelsea’s waiting in line to get her luggage, if you want to make yourself scarce, there’s no better chance than now. Push her to forget and vanish into the city. She saw something familiar in you, catching your eye in line to board the bus. What is it? What does she see? Why did she pay for your ticket? You didn’t need her to do that. The Bus Driver was zoning out, distracted. Everyone else in that line should have been distracted. Should have paid you no mind. How did she notice you? Are you getting sloppy?

This is dangerous.

Everything about this is dangerous.

Should have reported in. Gone straight home. Not… taken a civilian bus? What’s your cover story? Where’s your back-up? Why did you just spend several hours trapped in a metal container powered by explosions while a strange civilian tried to chat you up?

Is this some kind of test?

Okay fine – if they’re going to quiz you about her, you can rattle out her details just fine. Chelsea Becker, twenty-eight years old. Blue eyes, straight blond hair about shoulder length. Tall for a woman. At time of meeting her, she’s wearing black eye-liner with black lipstick. Kind of tacky. Off-brand black flats and a sundress with a floral pattern, a pale pink purse hung across her chest.

Born in Oklahoma right before The Year of Hell drove refugees out of the Midwest and towards the coast. She says her family is in Atlanta but she’s lying, it’s more complicated than that but she doesn’t want to think about the specifics. 

The past three years she’s been working for a shipping company in San Francisco. Before that, lived in New Seattle. She claims she’s moving to Los Diablos after a job offer with a tech start-up owned by an old friend. That last one was at least truthful. She’s hoping for a fresh start.

Suppose you can understand that sentiment at least.

You turn to face Chelsea as she returns from fetching her suitcase. “Hey there kiddo, half expected you to be gone already.”

You shake your head, shrug. Around the two of you, the crowd is beginning to spread out. Some people waiting to board the bus you just came in on, others are leaving the shade of the metal slats, hailing taxis or walking the street.

“Hey… look, uh–” Chelsea makes a face, rocking the wheels of her suitcase back and forth in front of her.

You shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, your hand brushes up against a syringe of tetradoxin and your shoulders tense up. If Chelsea wasn’t right here in front of you it’d be a lot harder to resist the feeling – but no – you’ve got an extremely limited supply now. Need to make it last.

Chelsea looks back to you, smiles. “So, I need to meet up with my cousin–” Another lie? She’s nervous. But not for herself – for you? What?

You don’t meet her eyes. If she thinks you’re some kind of bashful transient, well, that’s not too hard a role to play. “Thanks… um– again.”

Some internal conflict plays out in Chelsea’s head and then she twists the grip on her suitcase with one hand and pulls at her purse strap with the other. “I’ve got some time to kill, do you want to grab something to eat?” She hesitates, and then before you can reply, adds, “I can cover for you, don’t worry about it.”

It’s… tempting to let this play out, to find out just what it is about you that Chelsea finds so familiar that would compel her to offer such concern for a complete stranger. She seems to think you’re a kid? And a run-away? She’s not sure. It’s a lot closer to the truth than you’re comfortable with. 

Put on an embarrassed smile. If she knew the truth she wouldn’t be so quick to have you stick around. “It’s– it’s fine.”

There’s a flare of frustration from Chelsea, “You sure?”

You hold up a conciliatory hand, shrug shoulders. Look grateful, but embarrassed.

When it becomes clear you aren’t going to budge, Chelsea purses her lips, blowing a stray hair away from her face. “Alright then…” She lets go of the suitcase, sticks her hand out to you, “I’m Chelsea Becker.”

“Alex,” you answer, memory automatically supplying the name of the cashier that had mistakenly handed you five five-dollar bills instead of ones this morning. Awkwardly, you grab Chelsea’s hand – still cold from the bus AC – and shake it.

Rather than pulling you into a hug like she had been thinking about, she lets go of your hand. There’s a bizarre disappointment in that. “You have a place to stay, Miss Alex?”

The ‘Miss’ hits you off guard and it takes a moment longer than it should to get back into character. Have to wipe the inexplicable smile threatening to crawl up your face. “Yeah, uh– yeah, I’ll… I’ll be fine.” It’s too obvious a lie, and as expected Chelsea frowns. “S’fine. Really.” You insist, willing her to believe you.

“Well, alright.” She grabs her suitcase again, “I know it’s a big city, but I hope we run into each other again. You take care of yourself, honey.”

“Yeah…” Now you can let yourself smile, genuine this time. “You too.” Wince at the sound of your own voice, but if Chelsea noticed anything weird about it, her thoughts don’t betray her.

Have to resist the urge to bow as you step backwards, then it’s a quick about face and out into the daylight of the unshaded street. Can feel Chelsea, in the back of your head. Watching you leave into a crowd of strangers, until finally she too turns and walks away.

This whole interaction was a stupid risk on your part.

Sure, gave her someone else’s name – she even seemed to think you were a woman, but now she’s an unnecessary loose end. Someone that might remember your face if anyone came looking. Which they will.

If you were stronger, you could have just ghosted her back on the bus. Gotten off and taken the next one just to be sure. You could still salvage this, she’s not too far away. Just reach out and push her to forget you. Nothing you haven’t done a dozen times before but – you hold back and it’s too late. She’s lost in the buzz of the crowd, now blocks away.

You duck into the shade of a shop awning and shield your eyes as you stare out into the succession of steel, concrete, and brickwork rising out before you in every direction. Rub some dust out of one eye with the base of your wrist. 

So this is Los Diablos. A corpse city built on the ruins of old Los Angeles after the 1980 quake devastated the whole west coast. Suppose the closest you’ve been to a city like this before is that stint in New Orleans.

Los Diablos looks a bit further along in its recovery. 

It’s an aptly named city, you suppose. The air tastes like smoke and ozone, what isn’t covered by shadow is exposed to a scorching sun that punishes any attempt to look skyward. And so… You’re here. You made it.

Nothing about being here is even remotely a smart idea on your part, but it’s not like you planned this out ahead of time. You’re banking way too much on the reputation of a city you’ve never actually been to before. The supposed ‘golden success story’ for the power of the Free Economic Zone to pull miracles out of literal ashes. The city has one of the highest populations of modded and boosted individuals in the entire country.

Someone like you should be able to slip away completely unnoticed in a city like that. And yet – as dangerous as it was – it was nice to be seen for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)
> 
> *Fun fact, Tetradoxin, a completely fictional chemical, is based on the extremely real and extremely lethal [Tetrodotoxin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetrodotoxin). A neurotoxin that inhibits the nervous system from functioning.


	2. Sidney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[I Run So Far](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vA24dUR3uGs)]

18 April, 2007

The fist you sidestep meets only air, carrying the momentum of its owner along. You spin and kick out his knee from behind, sending the man crashing down to the cement. He’s dazed as his head cracks against the ground, but unlike his friend against the dumpster, he’s still conscious. When he doesn’t move, you take the chance to catch your breath. Don’t take your eyes off. He’s waiting for your to drop your guard.

There’s no one else in this alleyway, no one coming.

Too bad for him.

You move before he can commit, kick him hard in the stomach, again in the face as he tries to roll away, wheezing for air. Still awake, so he gets another kick. It’s the fourth that does him in. There’s a throbbing in your foot, knuckles feel raw. Lean back against the wall, heart still pounding in your ears.

Just some thugs, that’s all. Not even part of a gang. Freelance creeps that thought they saw an easy mark they could chase into a blind alley. You rub your temples, feeling a headache coming on. There’s nothing for it. You need a boost. When was the last time? Yesterday, really? Or, suppose it must be past midnight now, so two days? Never gone that long before.

Should have just ghosted on these guys. Didn’t have to fight them. You need the practice though. Don’t have a gun to protect yourself with anymore. You can listen in on martial art lessons but it’s another thing to actually build the muscle memory. You need any edge you can get out here.

Speaking of which, you stick a hand in the front pouch of your hoodie, feeling around. Not many left now. But everything pulses and the buzz of the city presses in, threatening to drown out your own thoughts. Hard to focus – hard to think – hard to–

“Hey, what on earth happened here?”

You yank your hand out of the pocket and spin on your heel. Stupid! Idiot! What’s wrong with you?

A man in a plaid vest over a yellow shirt and sporting a trucker’s cap takes a step back from you, raising his hands in a ‘calm down’ gesture. “Woah, easy.”

You plant your feet and tense your shoulders. More trouble?

“I heard the shouting and ran as fast as I could.” He raises an empty hand towards the two men sprawled across the ground. “This your work?” With his hand stretched out like that, you can see the sheen of scales reflecting the streetlight poking out from under his sleeve. Oh crap. The man’s a boost. Someone crazy enough to inject themselves with a drug with a 95% death rate on the rate off chance they’ll get super powers. Well, Los Diablos is supposed to be full of them, suppose it was only a matter of time.

His shoulders are tense, trying to figure you out. Is he a friend of these two guys or…?

You don’t relax either. “…self-defense.”

Trucker cap man gives you an incredulous look, “I can see that. You really did a number on them.”

You glance back. Blood is running from the nose of the guy slumped against the dumpster, another puddle of blood halos his friend’s head on the cement. Your eyes follow the trail down to your shoe, the spatter of red sinking into the cheap canvas. There’s an obvious role to play here unless you want another fight.

“Oh.” You say. Taking a step back you stagger away from the beaten men, falling to the ground on your butt. “Crap.” You add. You pull your legs up to your chest and press your wrists against your forehead.

As hoped, trucker cap man’s thoughts switch from suspicion to concern. There’s a twinge of panic you have to fight to suppress as he kneels next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. Touching – why the touching – clothes – you’re wearing clothes, layers. He’s not going to see anything – notice anything. “Hey, hey, it’ll be okay.” Trucker Cap Man makes more soothing noises until you stop shaking. Wait – when did you start shaking?

He lets go of you, _finally_. “Look, my name’s Overnight.”

You give him a blank stare, should you know who that is?

“As in, like… Overnight delivery?”

He’s looking for some indication you’re okay so force a small smile onto your face.

“What’s your name, uh…” He looks you up and down. “…kid?”

Swallow the lump in your throat, dredge up another throw-away name. “…Sidney.” You’d been shadowing her Judo practice that morning.

Overnight nods, “You really did a number on these guys, huh Sidney?” His tone and body language are cautious, doesn’t want to upset you further. That suits you fine.

“I was… really scared.” You lie, but as soon as you say it – pull your legs tighter against your chest, can feel your heart still hammering against the ribs. What’s to be scared of? Don’t be ridiculous, it’s the withdrawal getting to you.

“It’ll be okay,” he squeezes your shoulder and you dig your fingers into your legs. “I just need to call an ambulance, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He steps up and away from you, pulling a cellphone from one pocket, flicking it open with a motion of the wrist.

You stare at the cracks in the cement while Overnight talks on the phone, pointedly ignoring the two men collapsed in the alleyway with you. Think they’ve stopped bleeding by now. How long will they be out? Need to get out of here before then.

Don’t really listen to Overnight’s conversation – don’t need to in order to get the gist of it. It makes for a weird overdubbing effect in your head. Like a video recording where the sound is a second behind the image, or like letting your eyes go out of focus.

When he finishes on the phone, he snaps the cell shut and turns towards you. You keep staring at the ground, legs pressed against yourself. “They’re on their way. We just need to hang tight.”

He’s wondering how you took out two grown men on your own, but he thinks he’s back in familiar territory now. Take care of the girl – or maybe guy, he’s guessing – and keep an eye on the criminals until the ambulance and the police arrive.

“I… need to – um – to get going now.”

Overnight presses a hand on your shoulder as you try to stand up, knees not quite obeying you. “Woah, Sidney, it’s okay.” You can feel the train of thought running through his head. Wants you to go to the hospital, to talk to the police. He’s even hoping you’ll distract them enough that _he’ll_ be able to slip away without talking to the police.

Swallow the nausea back down and you shake your head, forcing yourself to your feet despite Overnight’s hand. “I–I–I really… need to go.” Sweating like crazy under these clothes. Home was hot too, but this city has it beat.

Overnight stands between you and the way out of the alley. He’s back to suspicious now. He recognizes the two men on the ground. Doesn’t like them, but he knows them. He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t recognize that face and now he’s trying to place it.

Can’t wait here. Can’t talk to the police. Gotten this far by playing it safe, you can’t risk it. If you talk to the police, if they do a scan, if, if, if… Don’t want to go back. Not yet. No – you are _not_ going back. If that makes you a bad person, then guess you’re the worst.

You tense, ready to move. Blink the blurriness out of your eyes. They feel puffy, as if you’d been crying. Bizarre.

Overnight knows your going to run and he stands ready to catch you, hands raised at his sides. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand what your deal is. Only means you have the advantage.

You push off and break left only to fake him out and twist around his right, counting on your lighter frame to let you squeeze past. Overnight grabs at your arm, but you’re not quite where he thinks you are and his hand only clamps down on empty air.

You break into a run down the street, can feel the split of indecision in him between running after you and watching the guys in the alley.

It takes too long for Overnight to come to a decision. By the time he does, you’re gone. Out of sight into the night, and he’s left wondering: What the hell just happened?

You don’t stop running for another two blocks before collapsing against a brick facade, gasping for breath. Maybe you could have taken him in a fight but… was it really worth the risk? Lungs ache as you swallow down air. The pressing buzz in your head is even worse now. Back against the wall, you pull a syringe out of your hoodie pouch and slide away from the street light into the shadow of the building.

Have to fight the surge of panic as you slide your sleeve up. No one’s nearby, no one is looking. Probably? No, you’re certain. It’s fine, it’s not fine, it’s fine. Bite the cap off, and hold your breath.

You hate this part.

Toss the spent syringe aside and quickly yank the sleeve back down. Maybe it’s that… what’s-it – that placebo effect, but you’d swear everything’s already quieting down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	3. Lilly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Bad Tourist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZwHoOXq6sM)]

24 April, 2007

This was so stupid.

Sam is fast asleep, sprawled over the bed on the other side of the door. Didn’t even get to the first button of his shirt before you punched his lights out. As long as you’re quick you should be able to keep him out with enough time to shower, change, and get long gone before he even realizes there’s anything amiss among his already trashed, garbage-filled apartment.

The bruise forming over his left eye doesn’t even look that bad, frankly.

A quick shower is better anyhow. Less time to think. Less time to look. Hot water hits the burn line along your arm and it’s all you can do not to yell at the shock of it. Grind your teeth and hiss out the pain. Another reminder: there’s only so much running you can do. Your skin isn’t something you escape, despite every effort otherwise.

The bathroom window is mercifully fogged over as you towel yourself off, matting the water out of your hair. It’s grown from hat-hair frizz to soaked-rat now. Hasn’t been cut since well before this little solo operation, the dark red hair starting to curl at the ends. When it’s not soaked anyway.

The risk of hair obscuring your vision is something you never could have gotten away with before. Another new rebellion that needs panicked pulses through your system. A secret middle finger erected at home. Hey, if you’re going to start breaking rules, why stop with one?

New clothes now to replace the old ones you’ve had since San Francisco. Still a hoodie and sweatpants, hanging loosely on your frame. No more beanie though, and you’ve swapped out the grays for greens.

Exiting the bathroom and there’s Sam, still sprawled out on the bed. A twinge of guilt, or maybe it’s just lingering pain in your knuckles. Straight up manipulating someone to let you into their apartment is a little… brazen. But it’s been weeks since you’ve had a proper shower. Hadn’t been prepared for how willfully Sam played into your manipulations. Worse than that, how on earth did he actually read your gross, shapeless, inhuman form as a woman? If you had that kind of ability to alter people’s perceptions hiding wouldn’t be nearly as hard as it actually was.

Nausea curls up your throat and you clutch your sides, wet hair sticking to your face. Guilty? Nothing to be guilty about. Sam was a rube. An Idiot, just like Chelsea. You’re not a woman. Do you even count as a man, really? It’s just another set of rules you’ve been trained to abide by. Just another layer of the act, no more real the rest of you.

You’re not even going to steal anything this time. All you wanted was a shower and a chance to change into clean clothes.

There’s something wrong with you. Think maybe, maybe you’ve known it for a long time now. And you need to stop. Need to stop thinking about this. Need to stop thinking about Sam. About what Sam was thinking about. About –

_Sam opens the door, ushering you in. “Don’t, uh, don’t mind the mess, Lily. Didn’t think I’d have company today.”_

_You offer a polite smile as you step past him. You’ve seen human trashfires before, but it’s usually smarter on the job to give a wide berth. Fire has a tendency to spread._

_He pulls the door shut behind him as he follows you in. Can hear the lock click. You’re not an idiot. You’ve been through seduction training; you know what he wants. And horny people are stupid people._

_Goosebumps crawl up your arm as he takes your hand, pulling you towards the bed. His other hand brushing off an empty pizza box onto the floor. “So uh– how do we wanna do this…?” Idiot is too preoccupied with the fantasy in his head as he pulls you down next to him. Can feel his breath against your face._

_Never even sees your fist._

– you can’t be that. You can’t. You can’t. You can’t. Kick an empty beer bottle out your way, it flies hard enough to shatter against the wall. “I’M NOT FUCKING LIKE THAT!”

Clap your hands over your mouth, eyes wide, frozen in silence. Sam doesn’t stir. Fuck. You’re losing it. Pull it together. Discipline. Control. He’s nothing. A civilian. A non-factor. You shove a hand in your pouch pocket and a surge of panic shoots through like lighting. And then you remember – scramble back into the bathroom, the old hoodie discarded on the floor.

One, two – two syringes left. Two shots left and that’s it. That’s everything you looted from your last handler before splitting. After that you’ll… you’ll what? Feel like this all the time? The constant pressure bearing in on every thought? Gotta be clear-headed. Gotta be calm. Gotta tear off this cap. Gotta roll back the sleeve. You’ve pretty good at self-injecting without looking at this point. Or at least good enough.

Toss the empty needle to the ground. Pull the sleeve back down.

You’ll be gone before he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	4. Bystander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Evelyn]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u32Tvnv312E)

29 April, 2007

“Ma’am– er, sorry, sir? Sir?”

Crap, pay attention!

You’re at the front of the line now at Steak and Shake. Only came in here to doge a woman on the street you thought might have been Chelsea. Was she following you? Impossible to tell. All you can do to block out the city. Why did you _ever_ think a city was a safe place to hide out? Stupid. Idiot.

“Sir?” The cashier, Jessica by the nametag, looks at you, brows furrowed and building irritation. Sheepishly you stammer out an order for a milkshake and fries and step aside for the next person in line.

Whatever, let the lady have her five seconds of irritation. She’ll forget about you on her own soon enough. You’re just another nameless face in the mob. You run a thumb over the twenty she had mistakenly given you instead of your correct change.

It’s been slow going, working out the details, but you almost feel confident enough to try getting together the cash for an apartment. Hard to hold on to the money though. Keep looking for something that can replace the tetrodoxin syringes now that you’re out. Nothing has so far.

The milkshakes help a little. Somehow. You’re not a chemist. It’s never been your job to know these things.

A young man on the other side of the counter smiles at you as he hands you your order. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you. Don’t know how to read it – try to sort through the noise to find his thoughts and –

Your face burns read as you hurriedly take your fries and shake and retreat to the far end of the restaurant. Slump into the chair and try not to think about what was on that boy’s mind.

Think about milkshakes and french fries instead. Garbage food. _Never_ could have gotten something like this at home. Or on a mission. Now there’s no one to tell you no. To slap the fries out of your hand. When was the last time you choked down some kind of gross grey paste? Weeks? A month? Never again if you can help it.

Why does salt and chocolate taste so good?

Make to the bottom half of the fries when you lift your head in time for a middle-aged looking man in business attire to stagger into the restaurant and crawl under the table of three very surprised looking college girls. “A friggin’ man with sharks for hands is robbing Tony’s butcher shop!” The man yells by way of explanation as the three women try to kick him back out from under the table.

The whole building erupts into chaos as people split between taking shelter and trying to get a better look at the action. No one goes outside though. No one’s that dumb.

You toy with the last fry in your basket. A boost? Well, someone desperate enough to try the hero drug anyway. Just because you survive spinning the wheel, it doesn’t guarantee you’ll get a power worth anything. What could you even do with shark hands…? Rob a butcher apparently. Do the shark hands eat too?

A thud against the glass window draws your attention, and you can see the back of a man in a plaid shirt and a trucker’s cap standing back up. Oh, you’ve got to be joking, it’s–

“Overnight!” A man in the crowd raises his fist at Overnight’s back, “You still owe me five-hundred dollars for that car door you asshole!”

Bite marks run up and down both of Overnight’s arms, and it’s enough to make you wince. Whatever kind of scales for skin he has under there, they don’t seem to be doing him much good right now. He runs back into the fight, and out of sight from your angle in the back. Don’t need to be a mind reader to tell from the crowd that the fight isn’t going in his favor.

Standing up, you move closer to the windows to get a better look. Have to peer over the heads of three girls with UCLA jerseys trying to get snapshots on their cellphones. Even if not everyone here knows who Overnight is, they all know _what_ he is. A vigilante, an unlicensed hero.Ever since your encounter with him, you’ve been watching for his name in the papers. It’s usually star players, like the Rangers who get top billing, but Overnight still pops up from time to time in one sentence acknowledgements. Small time stuff, helping cats out of trees, catching muggers. That kind of thing, not…

You crane your head to get a better look.

Overnight is in the middle of the street, wrestling with a balding, bare chested man, who, yes does indeed have tiny shark heads for hands, rows of teeth and all. Something about the sight makes your stomach churn, do they… have eyes?

Not sure what kind of hand-to-hand training Overnight has, but the man clearly doesn’t have a counter for an opponent who can turn a block into an attack. You wince as a row of teeth rake down Overnight’s forearm. Rub your own arm in sympathy. Been amassing your own collection of injuries lately.

The inner crook of your elbow itches. There’s too many people around. Excited or scared, some worried. All of it pressing in. Suffocating. Why – why are you like this. Come on – block it out, don’t freak out here, not now.

“Jesus, that guy’s getting chewed up out there.”

“Are the Rangers going to show?”

An anguished scream is wrenched out of Overnight’s mouth – you flinch as his right arm is turned the wrong direction. He falls to the ground clutching his arm to his side. The tenor of the crowd spikes in worry – this isn’t how the script is supposed to go. This is –

– Really Stupid.

Don’t even like the guy.

Can’t just stand here – _someone_ has to do _something_ – can feel it pressing in on all sides _do something._ Not quite at the door yet, stop, what are you doing? Are you crazy? Can’t even think straight and you’re going to… do what? It’s none of your business. You don’t belong out there.

Can sense the change in the crowd before the cheer raises up through everyone, drawing you back to the window. Someone in a tight blue skinsuit, a kind of hi-tech bullet-proof spandex, has slammed straight into shark-man from behind, knocking him flat on his face. A woman, Latina? From the looks of it. Long black hair bound into a braid and teeth bared in a wide grin.

The logo on that skinsuit – Ranger? With yellow lightning bolt accents. Only ever seen one of those from afar. Home never cared much for working with other departments.

The Ranger woman flashes a grin towards the crowd pressing their noses against the glass. Can feel your heart spike in response. It’s the crowd getting to you. The spark of excitement charging through everyone. For once it’s not difficult to pick out a name from the mob. This is ‘Charge’ then. The hot-shot public face of the Los Diablos Rangers. She’s been in plenty of articles lately. The current Marshal’s protégé.

It’s… weird though. For every buzzing thought pressing down on you, there’s only the mind of the shark-man. You must be missing her somehow. Because of the crowd or your inability to focus, or something.

Charge actually takes the time to wave at everyone. Cover your mouth as you snort, unimpressed. Really? Show-off. The criminal isn’t out yet. He’s got one hand up, a mouthful of teeth bite air as Charge’s braid swings dangerously close… come on idiot, pay attention.

She keeps wave – another narrow miss. If you could find her mind you’d give her a nudge, but the Ranger is on her own. Come on…

When she finally – _finally_ – notices there’s a blink of surprise and a laugh. She rears back a fist, blue and white sparks running down her arm. She brings her hand down, open palm, on shark man’s back and arcs of electricity course through him. So she’s her own built in taser. That’s… interesting. When she stops, pulling back her fist, shark man twitches for a second or two further before going still.

The crowd inside erupts into cheers.

Show off.

You hang in the back, out of sight of the street as the police filter onto the scene. Charge… you don’t know what Charge does, but you can pick up the drop in the crowd’s mood the moment she leaves.

They really care that much about someone that can beat up criminals?

You could never do something like that. Need to keep a low profile. Avoid cameras, the police, the government at large really. It’s out of the question. It’s just the crowd’s enthusiasm being infectious. It’s not you. It’s not your thoughts.

Still… the way she stood, hands on hips. That easy smile as she winked at the reporter, the way her braid falls over her shoulder. What would it be like? To be like that? To be seen with respect, affection even? To have someone look at you like that?

Your arm itches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	5. Melissa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Natural Cause](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KD6vBhYJjzE)]

2 May, 2007

Snap the case shut and hold down the power button until blinking lights, visible through the plastic mesh, signal the boot sequence has started. Had to practically gut the whole thing and piece it back together with spare parts, but you think you’ve finally got this computer working again. Or….?

“Lee–“ You crane your head back over your shoulder to see Lee totaling last month’s expenses.

You hear a heavy sigh. You’re being hired for your willingness to work, not for conversation. That’s part of why you picked him.“What is it, Melissa?”

The vibe from Lee is telling you to be quiet, but something compels you on regardless. “Is… is it still a repair job if we’re… replace– replacing everything?” Does it even still count as the same machine?

“You kept the original hard drive, right?”

You hesitate, running through the checklist in your head. “Y-yeah, that’s… still there – still worked.”

Lee puts the spreadsheet down on the counter. “Then that’s close enough.” He looks at you, peering over his glasses, sizing you up. “You done?”

You make yourself meet his gaze, Melissa is supposed to be confident in their work. “Yeah.” you pull a monitor to you, connecting it to the case. “Just c–checking it n–now.”

“Move over, I’ll see for myself.”

You obediently shift to the next chair over, careful to avoid tipping the plastic bins of silicone chips and wires scattered haphazardly on the floor. Lee takes your seat and stares intently at the computer monitor, hands on the keyboard. You don’t look at the screen yourself, focusing instead on any possible change in Lee’s mood. The man’s so placid, it makes him hard to read in more ways than one.

Finally there’s a hint of satisfaction from Lee and he pushes away from the desk, turning the computer off. “Good enough. Get me a list of the parts you used so I can bill the customer.”

You lean over from where you’re sitting, tap a sheet of paper on the table between you to draw his attention to it. “Here.”

He grabs it and gets up, returning to the counter as he reads it over. He pulls open a drawer, and after a minute of rummaging around pulls out a small wad of dollar bills. You meet him at the other side of the counter as he puts it down in front of you. “Pay for the day, good work.”

Pick up the money, count it. It’s nothing extravagant, but there’s something novel about the whole process. This is what normal people do right? They get jobs. Do tedious tasks and then… this happens? You’ve worked while undercover before but… never actually saw any money.

“Come back tomorrow, Mel, I’ve got another project you can do. Going to close up.” He nods, as if that ends the conversation and waves you out of the store and back onto the street.

It had been so, _so_ , tempting to have the old man accidentally include a ‘bonus’ with your pay. Not so worried about finding a place to stay anymore – there’s a plenty of abandoned buildings ringing the core of the rebuilt city to pick from, it turns out. Figure you’ll have Melissa come by Lee’s repair shop a couple more times before you clean him out.It’s been a while since you had a chance to mess with electronics.

You scratch at an itch in the crook of your elbow. How long has it been now? Can’t believe you haven’t been found yet. Don’t they care? It’s a headache to sort through the surrounding minds – a dull pain in the temples. So far nothing else replicates what you stole from home but you’ll find something for it eventually, right?

You shove your hands in your pockets as you stroll down the street.

Despite your better judgement, you find yourself at Steak and Shake again that night …chocolate milkshakes are a hard thing to say no to. As you walk in, there’s already an argument in-progress behind the counter.

“It’s always your shift Jessica!”

“Damnit Ronnie, I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about!”

You wince, both parties oblivious to you in the doorway. You should just – you should just turn and leave, right?

“You’re fired! Get out of here, and be grateful if I don’t call the police.”

Jessica tears off her apron, throwing it on the floor and runs out of the store, pushing past you, face red, hands curled into fists.

The man, Ronnie, finally notices and ushers you to the counter, a pleasant smile masking over the anger boiling off of him. Hesitant, you step up to the counter, and against your better judgement you ask “W–what was… that all about?” As if you don’t already know.

Ronnie grimaces, “Another dumb bitch who thinks she can skim from the till on _my_ watch.”

“Oh.” You say.

“Never mind that, what can I get you, my man?”

When you get back your change, it’s accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	6. Miss Alex, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Lantern](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSe_fi37Rx0)]

? May, 2007

The sun barely has a chance to shine before trouble starts.

You always make sure you’re out of the building you’ve been squatting in before the streetlights turn off for the day. These twilight hours are quickly becoming your favorite part of the day. The Night crowd has gone home, and the day crowd hasn't woken up yet. It’s the closest thing to quiet you’ve found since running out of Tetradoxin.

Which is how you end up outside in time to witness a man at the opposite intersection, with a mechanical arm, lift up another, rounder, man by the neck and tosses him down to the ground. “You’re not getting anything else out of me this time JARED!”

You look around, there’s no one else out on the street at this hour. Jared is gibbering nonsense apologies, and cries out as Metal Arm guy brings his foot down on the man’s rib cage. There’s no way the guy stays in one piece before the police arrive.

You’re running in the wrong direction. This is a mistake. You’re making a mistake.

You slam, arm first, into Metal Arm Guy’s back, pushing him off balance before he can bring his foot down again. Raise your leg to kick out his knee but he turns faster than you had expected. Grabs you, metal fingers biting alarmingly into your shoulder. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” He bellows into your ear.

In the corner of your eye, you can see the other man scramble to his feet and make a run for it. Gritting your teeth, you bring your free arm around to uppercut his jaw and follow-up with a knee to his stomach. Metal Arm lets go, wheezes for air.

You both take a step back, sizing the other up. He snarls, “You want some of this, bitch?” Furious but a tinge of confusion and fear both under that. What the hell are you doing? Excellent question. You don’t understand either.

Metal Arm rushes forward, so you neatly sidestep around. Take the chance to strike at the back of his neck as he passes, but he’s too tall – hit his shoulders instead. He grabs your arm, yanking you off your feet. Your yell turns into a gasp for air as he slams you against the wall. Metal Arm’s follow-up punch goes a little wide, dust and brickwork shards exploding next to your head as his metal fist buries itself into the wall.

As he tries to free his hand, you grab the arm and pull. It’s a cheap prosthetic model with exposed wiring. Can tell you’re getting somewhere when the guy’s fury turns to panic as things inside the air start to go ‘pop!’ “Crazy bitch,” Metal Arm hisses wild-eyed, “this is none of your fucking business!”

A second too late to remember he still has a second arm, and your head is ringing, slammed against the brick facade. You let go in a daze, sliding to the ground. Metal Arm takes the chance to work his arm free, showering dust down on you.

Down, maybe, but not out. Brace yourself against the ground and kick up hard at him between the legs. Can feel the white pain fill his mind as he tries to curl in, arm still hanging from the wall. “G–give–” you gasp for breath, “give up y–yet?”

He doesn’t acknowledge you so a second kick he gets. He falls backwards, arm popping free and hanging loosely attached to his shoulder. Metal Arm wheezes, curling into a ball. Can feel his panic – pain pressing down on you, crowding out your own. You kick at him again as you stand up. Got to – gotta make it stop. You kick him again. He wheezes, still awake, still panicking. Fuck! Make it stop. You kick him again, and again, and again, and–

“Alex!” Something grabs your shoulder pulling you backward and you spin around, fist aimed at head height. A hand catches yours with a pained grunt. “Alex, it’s over! He’s done!” Chelsea stares back at you, afraid. “Alex. It’s over.”

The woman from the bus? You freeze up, chest heaving for air.

“Come on missy, let’s get you off the street before the cops show up.” She offers a weak smile, “Okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	7. Chelsea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Chelsea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZZSojd65j0)]

? May, 2007

You touch the side of your face, the bandaged cut still feeling the ghost of a sting from antiseptic. The faux suede couch you’re sitting on squeaks as you shift your weight, sitting on your legs to hide your bare feet. Alternating flashes of red and blue lights pierce through the blinds of the window to your left, bouncing light on the off-white walls peeling paint.

Don’t think you’ve ever felt more exposed since coming to Los Diablos than right now.

It’s a tiny ‘L’-shaped apartment with a central living area combo kitchen – can watch Chelsea as she fusses with a pitcher of water in the sink. A closed door across from you must be her bedroom. And over there is an open door to the bathroom that she had practically shoved you into, insisting you wash your face clean.

Three floors down, a team of paramedics are loading Metal Arm guy into the back of the ambulance while the officer in charge of witness statements hangs around a corner, eating a doughnut. Can still feel the terror of when he came knocking on the door.

Why did Chelsea lie? Turn him away?

Why did you even come with her in the first place?

“Well, Miss Alex,” Chelsea pats her hands dry on a dishtowel. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

Is this… supposed to be a test? An opportunity to drug you? This building is just down the block from the abandoned store you’ve been squatting in. Has she been following you? Is she with the Farm somehow? It wouldn’t – it wouldn’t be the first time they had to keep you out of prison.

“Just… Um – water’s fine.” You counter.

Chelsea shrugs. She seems completely unbothered, not even her thoughts giving anything away. “Okie-doke. Suit yourself.” This woman is dangerous.

After a few minutes of fussing for a clean glass, she fills it with water from the sink. Takes a moment to pour herself a mug of coffee, steam curling from the cup as she pours. She puts the water down in front of you on the coffee table before sitting at the other end of the couch. Clutching her mug in both hands, she offers an uneasy smile. “So. How’s city life treating you?”

She watches you. Studying. You pull back. Wish she’d stop. Stop looking. You turn your head away, stare at the empty wire-frame trashcan in the far corner. “S’fine.”

Chelsea takes a sip of coffee.

You know what she’s doing.

She’s waiting you out.

Well.

It’s not going to work.

If she read your file, she’d know that.

To your immense satisfaction, Chelsea blinks first. “You know…” she takes another sip from her mug, “when I first ran away from home – must have been sixteen years old.” You watch her from the corner of your eye. Scratch at the itch in your arm. Where is this going? “I had–” she laughs, “–this whole plan worked out.” She stops and takes another sip. When she starts again, her voice is light, like she’s making a joke. “Don’t think I even made it halfway to the next town before one of my dad’s cop buddies caught me camping out under a bridge. I’d lost my train ticket.” She laughs again, as if the memory is supposed to be funny. Her thoughts don’t align.

What is this? Is she trying to build camaraderie? Lure you into a false sense of security? If they’re going to take you back, then take you back. Why do they always insist on dragging it out like this?

“The second time however…” Chelsea grins, more to herself than you, “well, you could say I’m still running.”

If she’s lying, she’s an unreasonably good actor. But if anyone could police their own thoughts it would be someone from home. Is this woman really going to just…tell her life story at you? What was the deal with her on the bus? Is she new? The new ones always pretend to care – at first – and then they figure it out and – and – and–

“You know,” Chelsea follows your gaze towards the window. “That was a very brave thing you did out there.” She glances back to you, raising an eyebrow, “Absolutely nuts, but brave.” She must be switching topics since you aren’t taking the bait. “Did you… know either of those guys?”

Now what is she fishing for?”

“N–no.”

“Really?” Genuine relief, and then… guilty? Why does she feel guilty?

You turn to look at her now. “…why?”

Now it’s her turn on the defensive, avoiding your gaze. Staring into her coffee mug. “Well… no – no, don’t worry about it.” She shakes her head and takes another, longer drink. Singling out her thoughts from the buzz is a strain but there’s one sentiment on her mind as plain as day. She… wishes you hadn’t saved the guy?

Why?

Is this part of the act? Another test?

You look back towards the window. You’re not getting out that way. Three floors up.

After what seems like an appropriate length of silence it’s time to go on the attack. “You okay?”

Chelsea laughs, but it’s short and forced. “Oh… you know. Living the dream in a city of devils.” She puts her coffee mug down. “So, it turns out my friend’s company got bought out and shuttered in the time it took me to move down here.” She shrugs. Telling the truth? “But you know, Alex. There’s always work for a girl good with a keyboard.”

“…it’s– it’s hard. On your own.” You offer.

“Yeah.”

“Why…” You hesitate, struggling to put the words in order. At the last second you veer into a slightly less impossible question. “Why do–do–do you keep…. keep calling me, um, ‘miss’?”

Chelsea looks at you. Slowly her whole face turns beet red. “Oh. Oh, geeze honey, I’m sorry. I just sort of assumed, but–”

“It–it–it’s fine?” You turn away from her, heart pounding in your ears. Fingers trace a too-familiar pattern across your thigh. “I… like it?”

Any moment now a team of black suited operatives with psychic dampeners is going to bust down the door and storm the room. You’re certain of it. Three to do the breach, another to break in the window. A fifth with a sniper rifle on the roof of the building across the street as back-up.

You’re defective. A hazard. What were you even thinking with this whole exercise? You had your fun. Time to go home and be decommissioned.

A hand touches the top of your palm.

You freeze.

It’s like you’ve been nailed to the couch.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Her voice is quiet, almost like a whisper.

“No.” You answer immediately.

Chelsea lets go of your hand, pulling back to her side of the couch. Almost wish she hadn’t. “That’s okay too.” She says.

The two of you sit in silence. The lights bouncing off the walls eventually stop. Can hear the last of the emergency response drive away. Outside the apartment the rest of the city is waking up. Every self-absorbed thought pushing down. Crowding out.

You take the glass of water off the table. Beads of condensation pool against the skin of your fingers, cool to the touch. A sip turns into a bigger sip turns into gulping down half the glass. When you finally put it back down, you have to gasp for air.

“Alex is–isn’t even my name.” You admit.

“Do you like it?”

Have to think about that one. “N–not really.”

Chelsea cracks a smile at that. “Can’t really say I was too attached to the first couple of my names, either. Names can be powerful things.” She laughs at the expression on your face. “They are! You should pick one for yourself. Something with meaning for you. Don’t even need to tell anybody, or just only tell the people closest to you. It’s all to you.” She looks at you, earnest. Hard to really believe she could still be lying. “It’s your _name._ No one can take that from you.”

“W–what about you?” You counter back, “How many people have–have you told your name?” Was supposed to be a smart-mouth retort, but the expression on Chelsea’s face gives you pause.

“Ah. So far? Not many. Two or three.”

Have to think about that one.

Instead of pressing further you ask, “Why ‘Chelsea’?”

She shrugs, radiating embarrassment. “Why ‘Alex’?”

“S–stole twenty-five dollars from her.”

To your satisfaction that gets a moment of shock from Chelsea. “That’s… not quite the answer I expected.” You stare her down, daring her to say something about it.

You win. She looks away first.

“So, ‘Chelsea’ is supposed to mean something like, ‘chalk wharf,’ I guess? I was just… set on writing my own life, you know? Crush down everything from before and make something new out of it. Set off to somewhere different.” She picks up her coffee mug and drains the rest of it.

When she puts the mug back down, you ask, “Is– is that even possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“Reinventing yourself. Um. Like that.”

That gets some nervous laughter from Chelsea. “Well. I kind of have to believe it is, or I’m in big trouble, yeah? I banked my name on it and everything, after all.”

Can feel your hands clench around your knees. “I…I want to–to–to believe it is too.”

The couch shifts under you as Chelsea moves closer. There’s still a foot of distance between you, and she keeps her hand to herself this time. “Hey…” Her voice is low, barely audible under the buzzing thoughts around you both. “It’ll be okay. _You’ll_ be okay.”

You stare down at your knees, your hands. They won’t stop shaking. Tell them to stop and they ignore you.

When you don’t respond she shifts on the couch again, turning to face her whole body towards you. “Hey, Alex? Alex, com’on, look at me.”

Reluctantly, you lift your head, try to avoid meeting her eyes.

She tilts her head, smiles. “I want you to look at me, alright? Just… take a breath with me.” With her hands she pantomimes a breathing motion, bringing her hands together as she breathes in through her nose. Holds it. Then exhales, pulling her hands apart again. “Just try it, okay?”

You don’t really have any alternatives so you humor her.

Deep breath.

Hold.

Exhale.

“Great, just like that.”

You do it again with her, mimicking her hand motions and feeling more than a little foolish for doing so. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale.

She looks at you. “How’re we feeling?”

Stare down at your hands. They’ve stopped shaking. At least for the moment. “Better.” You admit.

“You’re a smart kid. You’ll get through this. Listen, Alex…” Chelsea pauses, “if you need somewhere to stay for awhile, you’re welcome to crash on my couch. Long as you need to. No judgement.”

Why is this stranger being so nice to you? She can’t be from home, from The Farm. Not even the kindest face there ever treated you like this.

It’s because she doesn’t know.

If you stay here she’ll find out. She’ll find out and she won’t be nice anymore. It’ll be worse. Because you tricked her. It’s dangerous. _She’s_ dangerous.

Hurts to speak, throat a closed circle. “I–I–I can’t…”

There’s a pained sigh from Chelsea. “Well, I’m not going to force you to. Just… take care of yourself, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Miss Alex (And other faces)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499/chapters/45047686)


	8. Cuckoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Never Get Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-iFZ3N-QWgs)]

?? May, 2007

You keep trying to act as if everything’s okay but who are you kidding? You don’t want to go back but do you even have a choice? You’re not like Chelsea, or Jared, or even the Metal Arm guy. Everyone is so loud. A constant buzz drowning out yourself – unreadable without an active effort that feels like hot metal through your skull.

Withdrawal is just a body thing, right? Yours has never meant much to anyone so what was the big deal? Why can’t you just quit? Why is it so hard to think, to focus, to t–t–talk? You shake your head violently, grabbing at your sides.

You thought you could do it. You really did. Plenty of normal, human, telepaths exist and they can’t all be on tetradoxin right? Haven’t even seen any on the streets here, and they’ve got just about anything else you could imagine. Some of which has helped but nothing that actually _works_ like you need it to.

So now you’re here.

Fingernails digging into your arm through your sleeve. Lines of pain shooting up in protest. It helps a little. Pain as pilot light. Something to see through the haze. It’s not you who just burned yourself on the stove while your daughter pulls at the hem of your dress, screaming. Keep them out. It’s not you shouting down your wife after coming home to see dinner dumped on the floor. Keep them out. It’s not you crying because mom and dad keep screaming. Keep them out. Keep them out.

Out. Out. _Out._

Fingers snap in front of your face. “Pay attention when I address you.” You jump with a start and stare straight ahead at the wall. It’s hard to remember he’s here. Even standing right in front of you. His mind is blanked. A void – drugs. Not the ones you need but it’s promising. The best reassurance you’ve gotten so far that he is who he says he is.

“You aren’t the unit assigned to this city,” He jabs a finger towards your chest. “That’s plain to see. So what are you doing here? Explain yourself.” He’s standing behind you now. Out of sight. Out of detection.

You suppress a shudder, will yourself to stay still. Can’t completely stop the shaking.”…c–c–complications.” You lie, and leave it at that. Don’t look him in the face. Don’t even look in his direction. The silence stretches out between you too. A string being drawn too tight. The couple in the room two floors below starts screaming at each other again and you flinch.

There’s a sigh from behind you. “How long have you been in service?”

It takes some effort to think back. “F–four years?” You think? Maybe? No one’s ever asked before.

“Of course. I swear they make you lot younger every cycle.”

There’s more silence. Longer this time.

“S–sir…?” Have to risk it. “I… I n–need to–to report home.” You were never meant to be on your own like this. You’re falling apart. Defective. It was a nice dream while it lasted. But you aren’t a person.

You never will be.

The man in the black jacket walks back int your field of vision, clicking his tongue from side to side in his mouth. “No. No I don’t think so.”

What?

His smile has an edge to it and even standing at attention you can’t stop yourself from tensing up. Seen that kind of face too many times before. It never meant anything good for you. “Unit 0742, I do believe your appearance here today is an answer to a prayer.” He claps his hands together. “I’ve got an important meeting coming up, and you are going to be there. Do you understand, cuckoo?”

“…sir?”

“You’re being requisitioned. Authorization code, 0392. Agent Jones Folsett.” He stares you down. “Do you understand, cuckoo?”

You nod your head. Keep your face blank. Play the subservient role. You don’t need his thoughts you know what they expect of you by now. When did you realize they weren’t as smart as they always told you they were? That they couldn’t actually peer into your skull like you could theirs?

It’s right now. When he leans in and stares right through you. “You look like a mess.” This man is an idiot. He knows the right words, but this isn’t protocol at all.

He turns away from you, moves to a briefcase laid out on the kitchen table. After some fiddling with the lock, he clicks it open. Carelessly, he takes out a sealed, white plastic bag and tosses it in your direction. You catch it, the plastic bag almost slipping through your fingers. “I need you clear-headed tomorrow. Report back by noon-sharp.” He doesn’t even turn to look at you as he waves a hand towards the door. “You’re dismissed.”

You look down at the bag in your hands. A single syringe of Tetradoxin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[all twisted up in wire]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773925/chapters/46810087)


	9. Murderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Animal Skin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ow4lxcbPk_U)]

14 May, 2007

Of all the possible meeting locations the two of you scouted out, this was the one you had explicitly recommended against. Lighting was poor, little room to maneuver, insufficient exits. If a fight were to break out, it would be a disaster. If? When. _When_ the fighting starts.

Hate these old abandoned parts of the city. Shot through with twisting greenery breaking down the remains of human habitation. Eddies of trash that pile up in the cubby corners. Always have to watch your step so you don’t poke yourself in the foot with a used syringe. No one cares about keeping the air clean out here.

If Los Diablos is the city reborn, then these outskirts are the rancid corpse of Los Angeles, not yet retaken by the earth.

You miss seeing a clear blue sky.

As derelict buildings go, the police station was at least one of the buildings in better condition. Still had a roof, even. The cots and the way furniture is scattered through the rooms and hallways suggests it might have once been a disaster relief site in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake and resulting tidal wave.

Guess everyone moved out once the sea released its grip on the city.

Your new handler ordered you to guard the area while he sets himself up in the old police chief’s office. Your first couple missions after training were guard jobs. Seems appropriate if your last before decommission was one too.

It’s an easy job. Climb up on the roof. Sit down. Listen. Keep your walkie handy. No gun, of course. Part of you is curious if any were left behind when the station was abandoned. It’s not likely. If you ever needed a reminder that you’re not home anymore, is the complete lack of stars in the sky. Between the yellow haze of ground light to the west and the smog directly above… can barely even see the moon shining through the clouds.

Mercifully your handler supplied another dose of tetradoxin this morning to keep your head in the game. Still not completely back to normal. But you can tell which thoughts are your own again. Hands don’t shake. Headaches aren’t as bad. Can at least focus enough to do your job. That’s all anybody needs of you.

It’s after midnight when someone finally approaches the station. Thoughts are guarded but can pick up a skim of tension. Suspicion. Can feel them thrust their hands in their pockets, fingers curling around something hard. A concealed weapon? Pistol? Impossible to tell just yet what make exactly.

So armed, but not hostile yet. You make a report on the walkie; “One contact is on their way. Armed. Over.”

“Roger,” the voice crackles back. “Stay on watch for the second, over.”

Second contact?

There’s only two of you. That’s already stretching the rules for meeting _one_ person. This isn’t part of protocol. You sigh. “Roger.” Hope the walkie doesn’t pick up on your exasperation.

The first figure enters the building. Pretty sure it’s a man. Tall, hooded jacket. You track him through the building against the mental map you made of the place earlier in the day. About thirty feet in he stops to pick up a piece of masonry and juggles it in one hand. Something about it…doesn’t feel right.

You pick up the walkie again. “Reason to suspect Contact One is a boost, over.”

There’s a pause and then a crackle of static. “Acknowledged. This is already known.”

Great. More information that wasn’t shared with you.

The first contact finds his way to the old police chief’s office at around the same time you detect what must be the second contact. Their thoughts pre-occupied with the upcoming meeting. A lot of questions running through their head. Don’t seem to know much more than you do. A go-fer? She’s armed too. Pistol. 9mm. 10 shots?

Of course. Everyone in this situation but you is armed.

“Second contact, incoming.” You report in, “Also armed, personal side-arm. Over.”

“Excellent,” comes the response. “Stay on watch, 42.”

You snort. He forgot to sign off that time. He’s the one that insisted on it.

Stand up, flex your arms. Your right aches something awful but it should be useable enough. Don’t like this set up – something isn’t sitting right. Why is your handler the one meeting the contacts? That’s supposed to be your skillset. You’re the expendable one. Why aren’t you at least being kept closer at hand to serve as a body guard? Why aren’t you armed? Who even are these contacts?

Home – the Farm – is probably going to scrap you for parts when you get back anyway. But if you got an agent killed…? Don’t want to think about that.

…the first contact – the man – he wants something. Is pressing for it and doesn’t like that he’s being kept waiting. The second contact – a woman? – is bee-lining straight for them. Tense, but under it, excited. Eager?

Can feel hands on metal.

You clench your fists. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Practice the hand movements as you go. Don’t let your nerves get the best of you. Not here. Not now. You’re supposed to stay put on the roof. Supposed to keep watch.

You find the ladder and climb back down.

Wish you had a weapon.

Stealth has never been your speciality. But tonight you have an advantage that all three are focused on each other and only one of them even knows you’re here. They’re in a tiny room with only one door and one window.

Door’s not even fully shut. No one closed it after the woman entered.

Can hear their voices drifting into the hallway as you press yourself against the wall. The man is talking, an edge to his voice. No warmth to it. “You told me last time, that you had evidence. And no you tell me you’ve got nothing. No papers. No video. No photographs. I need _something_. Something I can act on.”

“I’ve got something even better now–” That’s your handler talking.

“And what is _she_ doing here?”

“Watch where you point that thing, tough guy.” The woman, speaking? The pitch of her voice is low, with a bit of a rasp like she smoked too much.

“She is here as part of the terms with my agreement with–”

The man raises his voice, anger leaking in. “You’re working with _them_ now?”

There’s a sound of a fist hitting a desk and you flinch. “I can’t very well depend on _you_ to protect me right now, can I?”

What?

Your handler continues; “Look. It’s keeping watch up on the roof. I’ll call it down, and then _that_ should be all the proof you need that I’m serious about this.”

Oh.

He’s – you’re handler, he’s… betraying the Special Directive.

 _He’s betraying the Special Directive_?

The ‘answer to a prayer,’ the vague orders, the flagrant violation of protocols, the relief on his face when you first found him…

You’re fucked.

When your walkie crackles, you have to scramble to muffle it – turn back the volume. Hope they don’t hear you out in the hallway. “R–roger.” You acknowledge the order to come down. What the hell are you going to do? You can’t just… run away. Where will you go? What will you do? Without tetradoxin you’re nonfunctional. Even on it, you’re still defective.

If you have a team with you, you could restrain your handler – get back up. But in a he-said, he-said situation? No one is going to believe you.

After what seems like an appropriate length of time, you stand up straight. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Wrap your arms around your chest.There’s no choice really. Never was.

You walk through the door.

The male contact has his hood up, shadowing his face in the dim light of the electric lantern your handler has set up on the desk. He turns to look at you as you pull open the door. The woman stands to the side, hands on her hips. Chewing something. Nicotine gum, you pick up. She frowns as she looks at you, eyes hidden under a shock of red hair combed over on one side in an undercut. That’s…a lot of piercings on her face. Your handler stands between the two, by the desk. arms crossed.

You flinch from all three staring at you.

“This is him?” The man in the hood asks, incredulous. “This is just a kid.”

Your handler frowns. “You want them old enough to be trainable, but young enough that you can still physically control them. Most units don’t even get this far.”

Why is your handler doing this? Why is this even happening? You stare back at him. “…s–s–sir?”

He sighs. Disappointed in you? His mind is a blank, like always. “The accelerated process for the organic bodies sometimes results in a few hiccups. The worst get recycled, of course.” He gestures towards you, twirling his hand. “Go ahead, 0742, roll up your sleeve.”

You glance between the hooded man, and the red-haired woman. Both have their hands on something concealed.

Something metallic.

Don’t think. Follow orders. That’s what you’re made for. Swallowing back a wave a nausea, you slowly raise your arm. Have to be careful not to set anyone off. Grabbing the sleeve of your hoodie, you slowly pull back. Past a series of still-healing cuts, lines of bright orange are exposed to the open air, glowing garishly in the low lighting. You have to look away. Heart pounding.

The woman leans in, peering at your arm. She laughs, rocking back on her feet. “Damn! You weren’t pulling my leg after all.”

The other man turns on her, shoulders hunched. “ _She_ already knew about–”

“I had to tell her upfront if I wanted protection.” Your handler cuts in.

“Goddamnit, man.” He pulls a gun from inside his jacket.

As he does the woman draws her own pistol, leveling it at him. Your handler grabs at his own, though doesn’t draw it yet. From your position, you can see what looks like a piece of loose masonry levitating a few inches off the ground behind the woman.

You stand there in the middle, rooted to the spot. Hand still on your sleeve, pulling it back.

The woman tsks, shaking her head. “Bad move, tough guy.”

The man lowers his gun, radiating a cold fury. Can already feeling him thinking a way to come out on top here. “Fine.” He growls. “Just hand over the Cuckoo to me, and let’s be done with this.” The masonry doesn’t drop, you note.

The woman grins. She’s loving this. “I don’t think so, sugar. The bird’s come home with me.”

That gives your handler a start. “What? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

She laughs, her smile all teeth. “Deals change.”

Guns fire and you move, diving to the ground. Parts of the floor shift and tremble underneath and you’re sent crashing into a pile of rubble. Everything is reduced to dust and chaos. Can hear shouting. Yours, theirs, somebody’s. Everything’s a tangled ball of panic and you can’t unspool where yours begins or the others’ end.

There’s a clattering of metal and there’s a gun under your hand as you scramble back to your feet. You grab it and stagger backwards for the wall. Check the chamber, check the safety. Wait for the dust to clear. Need to calm down. Breath deep. Hold. Exhale. Focus. Who’s still here? Where’s the source of danger? Where’s your handler?

There – up against the desk still. The dust settles as you make your way to him. There’s a dark stain on his front. As you step through the rubble you glance up. There’s no more ceiling, hazy moonlight piercing through the dust and smog. Not enough to make up for losing the lighting from the electric lamp.

Your handler groans, still alive. He puts a hand to his side. Huh. You don’t feel sorry for him at all.

There’s a footstep and someone reaching out for your shoulder. The world slows down around you as training takes over. Spin on heel, stop with back foot, steady hand, breath out, squeeze, bang!

The man in the hood staggers backwards, clutching at his stomach. The ground beneath you starts to shake and so you squeeze the tigger again. Adjust your aim up this time. He grunts and you can feel the pain mingling with fear that washes over him in a mental backwash. With a gurgling wheeze he collapses to the ground.

You turn back to your handler. Hands are shaking now. It’s obvious he’s dying. You don’t have the ability or tools to help either of these men. You pat down your handler. A wallet, fake id, useless to you. Some spare bills. No tetradoxin on him. Of course he wouldn’t carry any on him.

Your handler is good as dead and now your covered in his blood. So you got a few days reprieve. Now you right back where you started, with nothing to stave off withdrawal. How does The Farm even _make_ tetradoxin? Is it a combination of things? Does it need a lab?

And the other guy… you don’t want to look. Don’t want to see. It was a combat situation. Reflex. It’s not your fault. You’re not the one that pulls the trigger. You aren’t. You’re not a murderer.

You’ve got no where to go. No one to trust.

No –

Maybe Chelsea? No one else has ever gone out of their way like she has before. Treated you like you were a person. She’s not going to be happy if you show up like this, but when have you have ever had a choice?

Maybe you will now.

You can’t go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[all twisted up in wire]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773925/chapters/46810087)


	10. Chickadee

When you wake up, it’s the sound you register first.[ An upbeat tempo, but muted, like the sound’s been turned down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu7rPq_0kJ0). Over it someone is singing. Or – attempting to sing at any rate. A blanket is draped over your shoulders. Can make out the bubbling of a coffee brewer. You freeze, not moving your head as you blink the sand out of your eyes.

Where are you? You’re on a couch. There’s a coffee table. The TV, muted, is playing some game show.

The events of last night start to trickle back in reverse order. Crying. Shaking. Finding Chelsea’s apartment. The two hour long walk in the dead of night. Ducking through shadows, avoiding curious minds.

The noise. The shouts. Blood. The gun in your hand.

Bang.

Bang.

A wave of nausea washes over you. Want to believe it’s just withdrawal.

As you shift up, can hear Chelsea call to you. “You want something to eat, chickadee?”

“What’s a… chickadee?” You rub at your eye, hands shaking. Come on. Stay still.

Chelsea sighs. “It’s a very tiny bird, what lacks the sense the Lord gave all her creatures to stay away from men.”

You get the sense she’s not talking about the bird.

“I tried to wash the blood out of your clothes. They’re drying on the shower door.” She laughs, waving towards the bathroom. “Can’t say that’s a skillset I was hoping to need again when I moved down here.”

Alarmed you pull the blanket away and look down at yourself. The shirt your wearing isn’t what you had on yesterday. Your heart lurches in your chest. Try to scramble up only to fall back down in the couch. Dizzy. Hard to focus.

Chelsea approaches with two plates of pancakes. She furrows her brow at the expression on your face. “Hey, hey it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“When did I–?” You pull at the shirt.

She tilts her head, “You changed right before conking out on my couch. Spent forever in the bathroom. Was getting worried.” Still is, she doesn’t add.

You relax a little at that. Images resurfacing as she says it. You’re safe. For the immediate moment.

Realize you’ve got a grimace on your face and you attempt to twist it into a smile. Take the plate and plasticware that Chelsea offers. “Thanks…”

Chelsea sits down on the couch next to you, her own plate in her hand. “How you feeling?”

The question seems to be sincere but a million different possible answers run through your head. Takes a minute to settle on one. “Dizzy.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shrink back into the couch. “No.”

“Okay.”

She raises her plate at you, plastic fork in her other hand. “Go on and eat if you’re hungry.” The television snaps away from the soap opera that had been playing to a man in a starched grey suite. Breaking news. Beloved pillar of community found dead.

Tighten your grip on the fork in your hand. In the next apartment over someone curses out their child after stepping on a toy.

Chelsea frowns, and is that your anxiety or hers? She snatches the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off. “I don’t know ‘bout you, but I think I’ve had enough of that kind of talk for a while.

You side eye her. Some connection she’s made, but you don’t want to know what it is. Don’t want to know what she’s thinking. Don’t need to know.

Huh.

Either you can trust her, or you can’t. And if you can’t there’s nothing else you can do at this point. Remembering you’ve been holding the plate of pancakes in your hand, you set it down of the coffee table and start picking at it with your fork.

You can feel her look at you. Wants to ask more about last night.

But it’s nice. How she doesn’t. Ask. Just lets the two of you sit in silence. You push the pancakes around on the table. Nausea overriding any desire to eat you might have possibly mustered up.

What do you do now? Does the Directive know you’re here or not? Do they know one of their own was here or not? That he tried to turn traitor? That he died. Do you stay? Run? What the hell even happened last night?

Wait.

The man you shot… your supposed ‘handler’… what happened to the woman? The one with the red hair and the piercings? Who was she? Why was she there? Is she still alive? Why did she want you?

Don’t know why the other guy wanted you either, to be fair. But he’s– he’s dead now. You–

Panic lights up every nerve in your body and you drop your fork clutching at yourself. There’s this awful wailing nose and you realize it’s you. You’re retching and – hands at your shoulders. Chelsea pulls you into the bathroom and you collapse in front of the toilet, retching up what little you’ve eaten in a stream of stomach bile. Vision goes blurry and you can feel the acid burning in your nose as you fall back on your knees.

“Hey… here.” Fear and worry running through your head as you hand Alex – you flinch – as _Chelsea_ hands _you_ a washcloth to wipe your face with. She crouches down next you, hand on your back. She’s done this before. Too many times.

And you? Don’t know what to do. _Need_ somebody to tell you what to do. Why did you ever think you could do this? Pretend to be this? Just – you flinch as the woman in the next door apartment cuts herself chopping carrots.

“What have you been taking?” Chelsea asks, her voice low. A dozen possibilities running through your head. You can’t focus well enough to pick out any of them.

Rub at your arm, at the itch in the crook of your elbow. “I–I–I don’t… I don’t know.” What was it? Can’t remember. Can’t remember the name. Tip of your tongue. Words all a fog.

“This… man,” Chelsea says the word with disdain, “the one that was supposed to be getting you more of… whatever it was, he didn’t say?”

“…no?” What did you tell her last night? You can’t remember. The background buzz is pressing in again, as loud as ever. It’s a strain to try and focus in to make out the singular cord of her thoughts against everyone else’s. But. You need to. To know what she’s thinking. What you told her.

Chase the line and – the blood, the bruises, the cuts – “No!” You shake your head, hands to your face. “It wasn’t like that!”

That gets a spike of alarm from Chelsea. “Honey, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not– they didn’t–” You dig your fingernails into your legs. It’s a like a block in your head or your throat or both. Just talk idiot! You dig at your legs hard enough to hurt. Focus on that instead. “Was just–just–just a job.”

“A job.” Chelsea’s voice is flat. She doesn’t believe you. Even as she’s on the floor next to you. Hand rubbing your back. She’s right not to, but you. You desperately wish she would.

“My–my-my-my partner the uh, the guy w–who was going to uh, pay me–except…. things they–they want not good. Bad.”

“Alex… this is important. So please, please answer me.”

You tense up.

“Did someone… touch you last night?”

“No!”

“It’s… Alex. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Okay? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important as to what we do next.”

You pulling your knees to your chest, burying your face. “I– I wasn’t!”

“Okay…” Chelsea doesn’t relax. Already, you can feel the next question she’s going to ask. “Alex… did _you_ … hurt someone last night?”

You can’t trust yourself to talk. Just nod.

“Very badly?”

Nod again.

Can still feel that blossoming lance of fear as the man crumpled to the ground in front of you. You’re not rated for wetwork but you’re no stranger to it either. Why is this one so hard? Why did he have to– you didn’t mean for… was he still alive when you ran? Maybe he still is. Maybe he got away.

He took two shots.

* * *

[ _It’s really all thanks to you_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21398344) _, Jason. You nod towards him. Whenever anything goes wrong, you’ve been on top of it immediately._

_Well… thanks, Jason smiles, a little color in his cheeks as he shoves his hands in his coat pockets. Rach and I go back a long ways, I really owe her my 150% percent._

_Yeah, you sigh. I’m really sorry about this._

_Sorry? Jason laughs. It’s not your fault– A gunshot drowns out the rest of his sentence. Holy fuck! he screams a he dives to the ground. He glances up and frantically waves you down, trying to pull at your leg. Get down!_

_You stand stock still. Staring ahead where Jason had just been standing. Don’t think about what’s happening. You’re just doing your job to keep everyone safe. Close your eyes as 0683 resights her shot from the roof across the street. I’m sorry, Jason. You manage to get out before she fires. Jason’s head slams back against the asphalt, his body limp._

_Job’s done. Time to go home._

* * *

You double over. Would have fallen to the floor if Chelsea didn’t hold you up right. Never felt it like this before. Sick. Can’t breath. Faint. Can barely hear Chelsea talking. To you?

“…with me? Okay? Just breathe.”

Breathe. Right.

Okay.

Deep breath.

Hold.

Exhale.

Deep breath.

Hold.

Exhale.

The world around you slowly comes back into focus. You put a hand out to the cool tile floor, holding yourself up. Look up at her, “Chelsea… I – I think I… killed somebody.”

She sucks in her breath. “Okay. Okay. All right. Okay.” She keeps muttering the words over and over and she slowly gets up. Finds your old clothes hanging over the shower stall door. “These are all getting burned, then. You can keep my shirt. At least until you find something more your size. You didn’t have like, a gun or anything with you when you got here. Did you leave it there?”

You swallow back traces of bile. “I… can’t remember.”

There’s a pained sigh from Chelsea. “I won’t sugar-coat it, Alex. I’m more than a little pissed to be dragged into this. But like hell am I going to throw a homeless kid back out on the street, or–” She throws up her arms, “–Idon’t know, turn her over to the goon squad this city calls a police force.” Under her breath she mutters the word ‘pigs’ like it’s an epithet.

“Why…?”

“Would it be easier to understand if I make it selfish?” She doesn’t wait for you to answer. Can feel her nervous energy fill the room as she balls up the white shirt and hoodie in her fists. “Maybe – just maybe, I’m wishing someone had done the same for me?” There’s a bitter laugh. “Or maybe just fuck the government. Jesus H. Christ, should have known I’d be too gay to go straight.” Chelsea shakes her head. “Look. You can stay with me for awhile. If you can’t even tell me what you were on, then there’s no telling how bad withdrawal will get. Hell, maybe I can dig up a doc off-the-books who’ll take a look at you.”

Your mouth is dry, with only the faint taste of vomit filling your nose. “I can’t…”

There’s running water from the sink and then a paper cup is shoved in your face as Chelsea pulls you up. “Com’on chickadee, rinse out your mouth and clean yourself up. I’m going to see if I’ve got any ginger ale left.”

It turns out there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[all twisted up in wire]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773925/chapters/46810087)


	11. pretend they're not the same as you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **pretend they’re not the same as you** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_63ZZRLylE)

It turns out you need _a lot_ of ginger ale over the next few months.

Not sure when you started getting better. The time passes in a haze of headaches and buzzing thoughts drowning out your own. Chelsea tries to help but – there’s only so much. She’s not telepathic. Doesn’t know you are. Even now, can’t bring yourself to tell her.

Stumble upon it one evening by accident.

“Hey kiddo,” Chelsea waves at your unkempt form on the couch. “How’re you feeling today?”

You groan, twist around the blankets on the couch.

“I was gonna make quesadillas tonight. Mind if I play one of my tapes?”

“…kay.” You manage to get out.

Talking’s been another issue. Never been great at it. Even before all this. Some days are worse than others. It isn’t fair. Really. For the world to go from being this distant theoretical to now this inescapable present encroaching in on you on all sides, at all times.

Chelsea hums to herself as she sorts through a pile of tapes in a corner of the kitchen.[ Satisfied with one, she pops it into her cassette player](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/73uGpiatLHRa39QMEtv2g7?si=Q5jzfg-DR6GWD9HX7ORK8w) and sets the music playing before moving on to the fridge, humming along to the tune under her breath.

The tape is four songs in when you realize you’ve tuned out everything else. Mirroring the tune in your head and – it’s not exactly like before. Like on tetradoxin. Can still feel the other thoughts pressing in. But – you have a little more space now. A little more room in your head for yourself.

It takes a few experiments over the next few days to make a system of. Chelsea, not quite sure how to react about your sudden interest in her music collection except with an amused smile. Wrap a song around yourself and you can make a wall to keep everyone else’s thoughts out. Make a division, a declaration of self.

Once you can think for yourself again, it’s not long until you get antsy. And guilty for taking over Chelsea’s couch. It starts with cleaning up around the apartment. A few… disaster attempts at food preparation before she takes you under her wing.

It’s not fair. Chocolate tastes good. Why can’t it go with everything?

Eventually, when you stop feeling sick or getting the chills at random hours, you get bold enough to start heading back out, at first to get little odds and ends Chelsea needs. That quickly expands into getting things yourself. Music cassettes. A razor blade for shaving. Some make-up that Chelsea ends up having to ‘save’ you from making a fool of yourself with.

Once or twice Chelsea catches you singing along the cassette player when she comes home from her job. There’s no stuttering when you sing and that alone would be enough to make it fun.

Both times Chelsea walks in on you singing, you hide in the bathroom for hours.

Lately, when you haven’t been running errands, you’ve been messing with a bass guitar you ‘rescued’ from the trash, trying to get it working again. Not that you have a speaker to test it with. It’s mostly cover for practicing your voice. No one in the park thinks twice about the weird hippie boy struggling to hit the high notes.


	12. hypocrites tryin to change the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **hypocrites tryin to change the world** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuMWuuf1hns)

“Mornin’ kiddo,” A woman with straight blond hair waves at you on the couch as she enters from the bedroom. She pauses at the kitchenette, peering at you. “You okay?”

It’s been months since that night in the ruins. No one has come after you, tried to take you back. It’s hard to believe. This is it. This is your chance. No more hidden agendas, or secret orders, or cold gloved hands strapping you down.

You rub at your eyes, wetting your hand. “I’m f–fine? I’m fine.” You shift your feet, push the blanket off to the other end of the couch. Something goes ‘thud!’ to the floor and you wince. Whoops, must have fallen asleep reading again. “I’m… feeling a lot better today.”

That gets the smile you were hoping for, relieved thoughts filtering back to you. “Great to hear, chickadee.” Still don’t understand why this complete stranger is helping you. Treating you like a real person. You scratch at your arm, through the sleeve. Grateful for the questions Chelsea doesn’t ask.

For the longest time it was easy to divide the world into three kinds of people. Most were civilians. They didn’t matter. Sometimes you needed to make use of a civilian in the course of a larger goal. Fodder. But such sacrifices were to be avoided if at all possible.

There were the good guys. People like the doctors and the scientists that cared for you, the guards that watched over everything, and above them all your handlers keeping you on the proper path.

Then there were the bad guys. People like yourself. Who needed to be watched and kept in line so that innocent people weren’t hurt. It doesn’t feel great. Putting yourself in that category. But why else didn’t you go back? Didn’t turn yourself in? The thought makes you feel sick to your stomach. You can’t do it. You won’t go back, and if that makes you a bad person then so be it.

You don’t know where to put Chelsea. Watching her crack eggs into a skillet, humming along to a song on the radio. She knows you killed someone and explicitly didn’t turn you over. So she can’t be a good person. At the same time… she helped you. Asking for nothing in return. That’s not what bad people do, right? A civilian then? But that doesn’t feel right either.

So now there’s four kinds of people in the world. Civilians, Good guys, Bad guys, and Chelsea.

You should probably get going sooner rather than later. Back into the city. You’ve imposed on her for too long as it is, and if something ever happened to her because of you… Being here is dangerous for you both.

“–hello?”

You jerk your head up, did you really zone out there? Must not be at 100% yet. “S–sorry, what was that?”

“I said, do you like ketchup on your eggs?”

That’s another weird thing about Chelsea. She keeps asking you about food customizations. “I… s–sure??” You move a stack of library books out of the way, pick up the fallen book and add it to the top as you stand up. Stretching your arms up over your head, you ask, “Um… do– do you need any help?”

Chelsea looks at you, pleased, with a slight smile on her face you feel compelled to return. “Yeah, sure, can you set the table?”

* * *

Still feel a little unsteady on your legs, but a full breakfast helped. Chelsea’s loaned you some old clothes of hers and they don’t quite fit right. But that’s okay, baggy and loose better hide your shape and other characteristics you’d rather do without. Try not to think too hard about how you’re technically wearing women’s clothes.

What’s the big deal anyway? Chelsea seems to think you are one. But, you aren’t. Not really. Don’t really feel like arguing the point. The closest you got was literally the second time meeting her. Chickened out of it then.

Being referred to as such doesn’t… well, it’s not really ‘happy’ whatever that might mean. Don’t know what it is. Like pushing two like-ends of a magnetic together. Powerful but invisible, and absolutely _not_ what you’re supposed to be doing.

When Chelsea learned you were planning on going out, she insisted on giving you money to buy your own clothes. To make up for the bloody ones she burned what feels like a lifetime ago. Don’t like the idea of owing her even more so you managed to negotiate it down to a loan.

Don’t know how you’ll pay her back of course, but there’s bound to be something you can do. There was that repair shop you were moonlighting at before everything turned sour. Maybe Mr. Lee would still be willing to give ‘Melissa’ some work. Who knows; maybe the thousand dollars you’d saved up months ago was still stashed away at you old haunt? Put that on the to-do list to check today.

But first: clothes. Up to now you’ve just been stealing them. It’s not even hard. Get a bag or a cart, nudge the right people to look the other way… basic infiltration, you’ve done it a dozen times.

It’s an hour of aimless wondering through the city streets before you work up the nerve to duck into a small second-hand shop. The door is propped open with an optimistically happy plastic snowman, sodium yellow lighting via unadorned lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling. A bored looking cashier, drumming her fingers on the counter watching you step in without acknowledgement. Fine with you.

It’s not a big building, but it’s large enough, a box with the one street-facing window a scattered handful of heads poking out over a forest of mobile clothing trees. An employee in the far corner is folding pants out of a pile. Don’t pay her any mind. Don’t pay anyone here any mind. Focus on the mission. Damn, your arm itches.

“Can I help you, miss? – oh, I’m so sorry, I meant sir!” You lift your head to look at the employee that had approached you, a pair of jeans still draped across one arm. Had been hoping she wouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” you wave the ‘offense’ away with a forced smile. “I get that a lot.” You glance back at the rack of assorted shirts. “I–I’m good, thank you.” It’s a relief to have her move on. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about people looking at you. Idle thoughts, not even yet heard but imagined in anticipation. Bracing yourself?

Have to be ready. What if someone notices something amiss? Takes cause to press things further? It’s not safe – you’re not safe. And you’re not safe because who are you even supposed to be now? There’s no handler, no mission, no cover story, no profile.

It’s just you.

Who are you?

You’ll have to come up with a name, you suppose. Real people have names, not numbers. ‘Alex’ works for the present, maybe, but it doesn’t really feel like _your_ name. But for now –

It’s you, Alex, combing through the men’s clearance section of a second-hand clothing store. But why the men’s? Not playing a role anymore, you can wear whatever you want. It’s fine, really. Who cares? Nobody, that’s who. Nobody cares. Nobody pays any mind to you slowly wandering over to the women’s section.

These clothes are at least actually interesting, even if so much is too dangerous to wear. No matter what you go with, certain things have to stay covered at all times. It’s a small thing though, a thrumming in your chest. The feeling itself a little alarming in its newness, keeping you on edge.

You don’t have much to work with if you’re really going to make an honest purchase, but with some careful combing it’s enough to put together two outfits. Who knew clothing could weigh so heavy on the arm?

It’s a guess for the size – no way are you going to risk a changing room, better to err in favor of a size too large – so then it’s to the cashier. A bored looking woman in her twenties with dyed purple hair and who thinks of you hardly at all as she rings everything up. Accepts your money without comment, and then – you’ve done it.

It’s like the first time you went out and bought your own food all over again; this was hardly difficult at all. Just your own fear. Of what? What’s to be scared of? Honestly. Everything was fine. You won. Make your exit, plastic bag around your wrist, hands in your pockets. It’s almost like you’re a real person. One more nameless face in the crowd.

There’s the occasional idle thought you can pick up, observing you. Each one a pinprick in your confidence, but – civilians don’t matter right? It’s a non-issue, who cares? If you didn’t get dragged back to hell after _that_ night, it’s not going to happen because some random nobody thought they saw a weird person on the street, right? Be reasonable.

It’s fine. Who cares what anyone thinks. It’s fine. What are they thinking, anyway? It’s nothing. Nothing at all to do with you. The man walking down the street in front of you is pre-occupied with his daughter’s concert recital. The woman behind you is entertaining a petty revenge fantasy about her boss. A group of young boys are whispering to each other and giggling, peering at the display window of a lingerie boutique, anxious self-absorbed worries buzzing in their heads.

An older man in a leather jacket brushes past you, power-walking in the opposite direction, barely even registering you existence. See? Fine. You’ve been here for months and nothing about the city has changed just because you bought a different type of clothing. You as invisible and nondescript and _safe_ as ever and everything is fine and no one is watching you as you stand at the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn.

No one except for someone twenty feet away behind you and closing in. Staring at your back. Trying to catch before the light turns but focused on you. It’s enough to make your heart race. Directive? Nothing in their thoughts gives that away, but then a Farm trained agent would be better than that anyway. If you break into a run, you’ll only draw suspicion to yourself. So – don’t turn around. Don’t acknowledge. Watch the flashing cross-walk lights, listen to the chirping of the audible signal. Cars rumbling by, makes and models you never had a chance to learn. Someone spat a wad of gum to the sidewalk once, stuck a penny in it. Now it’s flattened out and covered in grime.

The person moves to stand beside you, waiting for the light to change. Light can’t change fast enough. Stare straight ahead but can catch him glancing at you from the edge of your vision. Can try to telepathically nudge him to look away, but his curiosity proves stronger. Trying to figure you out.

When he reaches a conclusion, you can hear him snicker under his breath. Is it a mercy he doesn’t say what he’s thinking? You hug your arms, scratching at the skin through the sleeve.

The light finally changes and you can’t cross the street quickly enough. Any previous thoughts of maybe trying to return to where you had been squatting before you started staying with Chelsea are out of the question now. You need to get off the street now – somewhere you already know is safe.

* * *

As soon as you’ve closed the door to Chelsea’s apartment it’s like something heavy hits you in the chest. Why? Why are you being like this? Chelsea looks up at you with surprise from the kitchen table, surprise that turns to concern in both her thoughts and face. There’s an itch in your arm, a pang of nostalgia for the days when you had chemicals to take care of the stress for you.

Chelsea says something, but the words don’t register. You push past her, clutching your head, collapse on the couch, knocking over the pile of library books, mumbled words slipping out of your mouth like a leaky faucet. “I c–can’t– I can’t– I–I–I c–can’t–” The couch shifts under you as Chelsea sits down at the other end. Need to get it together. Can’t be weak like this. Practice your breathing, focus on the music playing over the radio, something, _anything_ but what had just happened. “I–I–I’m never g–going outside again…”

“Hey…” Chelsea’s voice is quiet – wants to touch but holds back thank god. “You’re going to be okay. I don’t know what they said to you, but don’t pay assholes like that any mind at all.”

Not said, _thought_. Flickering eyes, looking, judging – thought you were well enough already to go out on your own, thought you were brave enough to dress as a woman – thought you were strong enough after everything you’ve been through. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Find the pillow, press it over your head, as you curl up wishing you could disappear. “I look like a– like a f–f–freak! Why d–didn’t you say anything!?”

“Hey.” Her voice is stern now, and a hand finds your arm. You yank it away, curl up on yourself, clutching the pillow to your chest. A childish indulgence. Bizarre, you’re better than this. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this. You can do it, I know it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, try to focus on the music, drown out the ocean of thoughts buzzing around the edge of your awareness, try to drown out your own anxiety replaying the day over and over. “I d–don’t want to–to–to be a guy…”

“Well then, good news.” You glance up at her and she gives you a smile. “You aren’t.”

You groan into your knees, “It–it’s not that simple.”

“Well, nothing in life is, chickadee. Can’t let that stop us.”

You don’t respond to that. She doesn’t get it. She can’t get it. You can’t just… ‘decide’ you’re something else. That’s crazy. You play the role you’re assigned and you do it flawlessly or suffer the consequences.

Next to you, Chelsea sighs, picks up one of the books that’s gone sliding across the coffee table. “ _Neuroscience For Dummies_ …?” Can hear the skepticism in her voice as she puts it down and shuffles through the rest. “ _The Future of the Brain, The… –_ oh boy – _Scientific American Book of The Brain_ …?” You can feel her eyes on you. “You know I hadn’t looked at what you’ve been reading before. This is uh… some complicated looking stuff.”

“I’m just… interested?” It’s not technically a lie but there’s still a pang of guilt there. “I… I d–d–don’t understand myself.” You admit, forcing the words out.

“And you think this will help?”

“I– I don’t know. Maybe?”

Chelsea flips open one book, skimming through the pages. “Well, you’re smarter than I am. This is all Greek to me.”

You shake your head, slowly unfolding yourself. “I–I–I don’t really get a lot of it either. But I– I’m learning.”

That gets an amused smile from her as she puts the book down, finishes tidying them back into a stack. “You can be a weird kid Alex.”

“S–sorry…”

“Hey, I’m a fan of weird.” You pick up some fragments on memory. Flashes of gaudy make-up and over-the-top outfits. When Chelsea sees you look at her she gives you a smile meant to reassure. “You don’t ever need to apologize for being yourself, okay?”

“I… I don’t know who th–that is.” You feel small as you say it.

“ You’re how old…? Can’t be over eighteen, right? You’ll figure it out.”

“Not a guy.” You rush out, before breaking into a fit of giggles, overcome with a sudden rush of nervous energy. “Definitely not that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[why won't you show me something else?]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529201/chapters/51321145)


	13. can’t wipe out all our progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **can’t wipe out all our progress** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuMWuuf1hns)

“What do you think of these?”

“I d–don’t know… they seem kind of t–tacky.”

“How can a fruit be tacky?”

You shake your head and shrug. “I–I don’t know. It just is.” Chelsea puts the Ugly Fruit back in the crate while you find yourself drawn to a stall full of nothing but strawberries. It’s a little embarrassing that you’ve lived in this neighborhood for months now and didn’t even realize there was a weekly open-air farmer’s market. But what were you going to do when Chelsea asked you along? Say no?

“Strawberries?” Chelsea asks from behind you, her face half in shade from the wide-brim of her sunhat. Her sleeveless dress makes for a comical comparison against your grey sweatshirt and pants.

“Mmhm.” How long has it been since you had a strawberry? Weren’t supposed to be eating on the job but you stole one anyway. Paid for it later but it had been worth it. Was that the first time too? It’s hard to remember.

Chelsea shifts the bags hanging from her wrist, rustling plastic and paper. “I’ve got enough left for a small basket if you want, but you’ll have to carry it.”

“Y–you sure?” You glance at her.

“Yeah,” Chelsea waves the question away. “Just promise me you’ll actually eat ‘em.” You find yourself smiling despite yourself. Shouldn’t be a hard promise to keep. While Chelsea talks to the stall owner, you comb through the baskets. Satisfied they’re all pretty much the same, you grab one and Chelsea pays the man.

Dipping into the man’s thoughts is weird, the way he assumes the two of you must be related somehow. A strange conclusion to reach: the two of you look nothing alike.

You don’t need to think about it. Doesn’t matter. Chelsea raises a handful of bags in your direction. “I think we made out pretty good today, praise the Lord. Let’s get going before we get any more over budget though.”

Nodding, you shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, strawberry basket awkwardly hanging from your wrist. You let Chelsea lead the way back home, focusing instead on practicing one of those radio songs Chelsea always has on in your head. It’s something to focus on that isn’t the swirling mass of thoughts around you.

Perhaps that’s why you walk straight into Chelsea, frozen in the middle of the street. “S–s–sorry!” You quickly step backward, why’d she stop? What’s the hold up?

“Christ.” Chelsea mutters under her breath. It’s almost a relief that her thoughts aren’t focused on you. Someone else? Chelsea makes a sharp right turn, gesturing you to follow. “Hey, uh, let’s take the scenic route, okay?”

“Are your okay?” What’s up with her? Who did she recognize? Is she in trouble? Are you?

Chelsea increases her pace as the two of you leave the market proper. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

You frown at that. “W–why are you lying?”

“It’s not lying,” Chelsea huffs, not looking back you. “It’s… aspirational truth-telling.”

This whole situation is making you nervous. You stop walking. “What’s going on?”

Chelsea walks a few more feet before conceding you aren’t following. “Look, it’s just–”

You pick up on the man power-walking your direction before he speaks. “Chris? Chris! That is you, isn’t it?” You turn to see who it is; a man with slicked-back black hair and aviator sunglasses, one hand in the pocket of a leather jacket, pink shirt underneath and jeans contrasting against black boots.

Chelsea sags, a tired expression on her face. “Shawn. Aren’t you supposed to be in Seattle?”

“And I thought you were supposed to be in San Francisco.”

You look back forth between the two. Should you just… leave?

“Nah man, nah. Damn, I’ve been tryin’ to find you for a dog’s age. How you been?” He puts his hand out for Chelsea to shake, not missing a beat when he’s left hanging. “It is still Chris right? Or…” He squints, “That’s pretty understated for you. Maybe it’s Chrissy now, eh?” He laughs, slapping a hand against his thigh.

The tension in Chelsea’s shoulders doesn’t dissipate. “It’s Chelsea, actually. Thanks for asking.”

That gets Shawn to pause. He tilts his head, making a face. “Wait, what? You serious? Damn man, I tried to warn you about that fucking–”

“Just shut up and tell me what you want, Shawn, we’re kind of busy here.”

Shawn catches your eye and you take a step back. He looks back at Chelsea, the smile gone. “Hey… He’s a little young for you, isn’t he?”

Okay, you officially don’t like this man now.

Chelsea steps between the two of you, shifting the bags on her arms to get one hand free. “ _She_ is none of your concern, now just tell me what you want.”

The warmth from Shawn’s stance dissipates. Don’t like how he’s kept one hand in his pocket this whole conversation. The feeling of tension present in his arm. “Alright then. Let’s talk. Follow me.”

You bite your cheek, hard enough to hurt. This is all wrong. “D–d–don’t go with him.”

“Alex,” Chelsea’s voice is even but strained. “Just head back without me. I’ll catch up later.”

Shawn doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on Chelsea. “Listen to your friend, Alex.”

Both of them look at you and it’s enough to make you feel sick to your stomach. Who the heck is Shawn? How does he know Chelsea?

Chelsea gives you a warning look. “Be careful getting back, Alex.” Shawn beckons Chelsea to come with him, and the two turn their backs on you, headed west, down a different street.

Well fuck that.

You’re not about to abandon Chelsea after everything she’s done for you.

Being stealthy with a basket of strawberries isn’t the easiest task you’ve ever done, but you’ve been learning this part of the city. There’s a an alleyway that runs roughly parallel. As long as you stay tuned into their thoughts, you should be able to stay reasonably close.

You hesitate on passing by a fire escape. What about running along the rooftops instead? Keeping visual would be even better. It’s not a hard decision. Jump up and grab the bottom of the ladder with first one hand then the other. It’s a harder scramble up than you expected, first the ladder, then the wall. You’re not leaving the strawberries behind though damnit. Chelsea paid for those.

Rooftops was the right decision though. The whole block is flat-topped two story buildings, easy jumps. It takes a bit of running to catch up to where Chelsea is along the street below. For the first time in a long time you wish you had a gun on you. Damn, your arm itches.

You pop a strawberry in your mouth, it’s not chocolate but it’s sweet and better then nothing.

Hrm. Better hope they’re pre-washed.

Never mind that, focus on Chelsea and Shawn. You spit out the green top onto the roof. They’re both tense. A negotiation of some kind? Not about you, but you can feel your stomach churn anyway. Hopefully nobody ends up dead this time. That’d be ideal, thanks. Follow them down the block, jumping roofs onto a hardware store when they stop.

Shawn gestures to a bar across the street. Chelsea tries to refuse but ends up acceding. You watch them cross the street before clambering down from the roof into an alleyway. A strawberry topples out of your basket as it scraps against the brickwork during you descent, the band digging into your wrist.

It’s killing you just to leave the strawberry, but – more important things at hand right now. You drop the last couple feet to the ground, the shock of the impact running up through your ankles and knees with a wince.

No cars on the street so you just jay-walk it across.

Instead of going in the front door, you circle around the side of the building. Entering by back entrance should be less obvious. Or… maybe not necessary, you pull back as you hear voices around the corner.

“Seriously man, what’s with the kid and the domestic act? What happened to you man?”

“A lot can happen in five years Shawn.”

“Are you at least… happy like this?”

“Honestly…?” There’s a pause. “Yeah, yeah I think I’m happier now then I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Well. Alright then. I’m… happy for you man.”

He’s lying.

“What about you?” Chelsea’s voice hardens. “Did that suitcase make you happy?”

“Com’on, don’t be like that. Like you said, that was years ago.”

“You convinced me to steal from my boss and move across the country with you. You really think I can just forgive being dumped in an airport?”

“Water under the bridge, yeah? You were _just_ yapping about being way happier now, so you know, really, I was doing you a favor.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Yeah see, that’s the thing–”

“Let go of me right now Shawn.”

You tense up, how are you intervening in this? Putting down the basket of strawberries against the wall, you try to get a feel for Shawn’s presence again. Is he actually armed or were you just being paranoid?

“Don’t you miss me? Miss us?”

“I don’t love you anymore.”

“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Fine. But I don’t need you to love me, What I _need_ is your help with this, Chris – Chrissy, com’on, it’ll be like old times.”

“I already told you no.”

Okay, that’s enough.

“Man, you’re such a boring bitch now. Look why’re you–” Shawn stops in mid-sentence as you step around the corner. Shawn, despite being shorter, looms over Chelsea, holding her arms out to the sides with both hands. The two of them turn to look at you in a combination of alarm and interest.

Shawn recovers first, smirking. “Man, this one is sneaky. No wonder you like him.”

“Alex.” Chelsea’s voice is firm, unpleasantly cold. “Go home.”

You don’t move, keep your eyes on Shawn. “Let her– let her go.”

He arcs an eyebrow, “Wow, lookit that, you throw on a dress and you’ve already got a white knight lining up.” The way Shawn’s talking about Chelsea is making your stomach churn. Reminds you of being back home at the Farm. When the guards would get bored.

It never mattered what you did around them when they got bored. Ignore them, they got mad and made things worse. Break and it’d only encourage them to make things worse. ‘Fighting back’ never even ranked as an option.

Well, you aren’t at the Farm anymore.

It feels like the world around you moves in slow motion, as you push forward, fists raised. Chelsea brings her knee up between Shawn’s legs and he drops her, wheezing. He’s completely unprepared for your punch to connect with his nose. There’s a sharp crack, sending him reeling to the ground.

“‘UCK! ‘ou ‘ock ‘ucker!” Shawn pulls a hand away from his face, blood streaming down as he staggers to his feet. You don’t give him time to recover, landing a punch below the solar plexus before he can get his guard up. Winded, he staggers backwards. When you follow up by smashing his head against the side if the building there’s a pained groan and the man slides down into a crumbled heap.

Kicking him to the ground, before you can do anything else a hand grabs your shoulder that pulls you back. “Hey, hey! Alex. Alex, it’s okay, it’s over.”

You tense up and let Chelsea pull you away. “Asshole.” You spit in the direction of Shawn’s crumpled form.

“Hey, no argument from me there, chickadee. Now let’s beat it before somebody calls the cops.”

The two of you gather the bags – you make a point of collecting the strawberries – and make a break for it. You tuck your bloody fist under your armpit to hide it. Another bloody sweatshirt? You really need to stop ruining your clothes like this.

The two of you don’t slow down your pace until well over half way home. You can tell by how the new construction starts to give away to the pre-disaster architecture; buildings in a perpetual patchwork state of repair jobs. You glance over to Chelsea, walking along side you. Her expression dark. “W–w–who was that?”

“Just a jerk of an ex. Nobody important.” Chelsea sighs. “I thought I told you to go back to the apartment?”

“Are you c–c–crazy? He was one giant red flag. I w–wasn’t going to– going to let you walk off with him alone.”

“I had him handled.” Chelsea retorts, you can practically feel her pushing down the self-doubt at the notion. “Shawn’s always been a chump. That’s why he needed me around.” The two of you walk in silence for a moment as Chelsea thinks.

A man clad in only a pair of shorts and sneakers jogs downs the sidewalk, the two of you pulling to the side to let him pass. “¡Buenas tardes, chicas!” He waves and flashes a smile but doesn’t slow down.

The two of you look at each other. You break into giggles first. That was random, and dumb, and just… it was nice. For once you were seen and it felt nice.

You can feel some of the anxiety lift from Chelsea too. See the way her shoulders loosen up. “Well… it _was_ satisfying to see him crumple like a used tissue.”

“Is… is he going to be a problem again, you th–think?”

“Hmm.” Chelsea shakes her head, “Maybe, but I doubt it, bless his heart.” She glances at you, “You were a right terror back there. That’s the second time now I’ve had to pull you off of someone.”

“I… I know I d–don’t sound it but… I can handle myself too.” A lot better than she can, you don’t add.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better at any rate.”

“Mm.” You nod, trying to ignore the impulse to eat another strawberry as your arm itches.

“Have you…” Chelsea’s voice is low, cautious, “–thought any about what you want to do now? Or long term?”

“W–what I want to do…?” You avoid her face, focus on the path in front of you. What do you want to do? “I–I–I don’t know.” Punching and spying are kind of your only skillsets, and there’s not a lot of call for them outside of the very place you just escaped from. Would they leave you be if you just… did your ‘job’ on your own? That feels hard to believe.

“It’s okay not to know…” You can feel the ‘but’ forming in her mind. “But–” there it is “–you should give it some thought.” A bitter laugh erupts beside you and Chelsea shakes her head. “Don’t end up like me. Absolutely do not recommend.”

You chew at your cheek, not sure how to respond to that one. Is there a nicer person in the world than Chelsea Becker? You doubt it. “Y–you… um, you seem pretty great to me?”

Chelsea stops in her tracks and for a moment panic surges through you. Did you say something wrong? Where did you screw up? Then you see the expression on Chelsea’s face, she raises a bag-laden hand to rub at her eyes. “That’s uh– that’s real nice of you say, chickadee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[why won't you show me something else?]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529201/chapters/51321145)


	14. a second skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **a second skin** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEu8xhU4GSQ)

Chelsea’s job has odd hours, but this evening she’s home right at six on the dot. You’re still not sure what her job is. It’s something she has mixed feelings about, you know that much, and she won’t discuss it with you. After everything that’s happened, respecting her privacy seems like the literal least you could do.

She plops down on the other end of the couch from you, a bottle of beer in her hand. You eye it. “What’s that?”

“The cheapest beer in Los Diablos.”

“…can I try it?”

“How are old are you, chickadee?”

You have to think about that one. “…twenty-one?”

A small smirk, “Uh-huh. sure,” she says, not buying it. She hands the bottle over to you anyway. “You’re not gonna like it.”

She’s right. You sputter as soon as it touches your mouth and hand the bottle back to her. “Ugh! That’s gross.”

She raises the bottle, “That’s the idea,” she says before taking a long drink. She winces and shakes her head when done. “Probably put rats in it or something. Should call it the ‘Scourge of God’ if you ask me.”

You pick up your own glass from the table. You’ll stick with soda. After a sip to wash the beer out of your mouth, you decide to test the water. “Um, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…” You stare at your glass, watching Chelsea from the corner of your eye.

“What’s up?” She turns to focus her attention on you, mind a frustrating blank. She’s been getting better at that lately, and you haven’t figured out how to ask if she knows you’re a telepath without giving away the game.

“Did– did you hear about fight at the Glendale street market?”

“Yeah, some k-“ Chelsea stops and narrows her eyes, staring your down. “That was you, wasn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“You seriously knocked out a dude with armored skin?”

“Y-yeah.”

Chelsea shoulders’ sag as she sighs. “You’re killing me smalls.”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t you be keeping a low profile?”

You blanche, “It’s been ages. And– and–” You run a finger over your thigh, tracing patterns. “I can’t just… stand by when s–s–something like that happens.”

“God.” Chelsea looks away from you, you don’t need to read her mind to know she’s upset with you.

“I’ve been saving up money, I’ve got this whole design planned out for a skinsuit and I–”

“Sweetheart, I admire your desire to step up, even after everything you’ve been through. That’s something truly amazing.” Chelsea turns back to look at you and you feel yourself wither under the intensity of it. “But there are plenty of less reckless and frankly, less stupid, things you could do that would be just as worthwhile.”

You breath deep, hold, exhale. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. But–

A mask means you don’t have to prove your identity, don’t have to worry about your face getting back to the Directive. Maybe even, and this seems like a long shot, but if you got famous enough, or associated with someone famous, like the Rangers, that in itself could protect you? You’re intimately familiar with how much easier it is to make nobodies disappear.

Plus – and this scares you a little to think about – as long as you were approaching it on your terms, fighting was fun. A fast-action puzzle game of finding the right move and out-thinking your opponent. Each time you succeeded the nightmares felt a little less insurmountable.

You can’t say that though, can’t speak it aloud. Instead you say: “You’re the one that – that keeps encouraging me to… um, find something to do with my life.”

“Because I didn’t want you freeloading around my apartment forever.” Chelsea fires back. That’s pretty much a lie at this point and you both know it. She sighs and looks away from you, suddenly uncomfortable. “Look, I’m not your mother, you can make your own decisions.”

You dig your nails into your leg. “I’m sorry. I – I need to do this.” This is your way out. Your chance to be a real person, to prove you have worth on your own terms. To… make up for whatever it is you might have done.

Chelsea sighs and drains the rest of her beer. “Just… be careful, okay, chickadee?”

“Y-yeah. Of course.” You lie. Don’t meet her gaze. You cough into hand. “Um. There’s… there’s something else. Too. Uh–”

Chelsea gives you a guarded look.

“Pills.” You spit out. “The–the–the hormone stuff you t–take….” You chew at your cheek, running a finger in patterns over your folded leg. God dammit you rehearsed this all day. “Where do you get them?”

“My HRT meds?” Chelsea tilts her head, fiddling with the empty beer bottle in her hand.

“Yeah.”

“You know what taking those would mean, right?” She’s putting on a grim act – or well, trying. It’s not a very good one. She seems happy under it. For you? Still not used to that.

“I…” You take a breath, hold it, exhale. “I want to be me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very rough version of this scene originally appeared as part of [[all twisted up in wire]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773925/chapters/46810087)


	15. awful young for 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Capable]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6IB3u7rSPA)

20, March 2008

Chelsea didn’t like that you wouldn’t meet with the doctor she recommended. Sorry Chelsea. No doctors. Can’t do it. Can’t risk it. For the first time in your life you’re finally starting to feel like yourself and you’re not going to risk it.

You’re never going back.

Your hands jitter with nervous energy as you hold the two green plastic bottles. A metal railing is all that stands between you and Chelsea and the sunken bay of Los Diablos. The beach is more rock and jetty then sand, off shore the ruined remains of buildings of what you’re told used to be Santa Monica crest over the waves

Chelsea hands you a soda from the refreshment stand which you take with a small smile. “So, how do you feel, chickadee?”

“Hrm.” You chew at your cheek. “Scared.” You admit. “Excited?”

“Both valid emotions, I’d wager.” She nods at your hands, “Better sort yourself out before you drop something in all that.”

You wince, tuck one of the bottles in your purse. Holding the soda cup against your chest with your arm, you carefully open the bottle of Spironolactone and shuffle out a pill into one hand. It takes some delicate work but you get the cap back on without spilling anything, thank god. “Hah.”

“I’d have helped if you asked.”

“S’fine.” You shrug, pulling off the plastic lid for the cup. Hands full you shrug your shoulders at Chelsea, watching you struggle with mild amusement. “Here– here goes nothing.” You pop the tablet in your mouth and swallow it down with a gulp of soda. It takes a second to actually get it down – painfully aware of it traveling down your throat.

That accomplished you hand the half-drank cup back to Chelsea and swap the bottle in your hand for the bottle of Estradiol you shoved in your purse. That pill goes under your tongue. Feels weird, shoving something under there.

Replace the lid and stow it away. Don’t want to lose those. May not need a doctor’s prescription to get drugs in the Free Economic Zone, but they sure aren’t cheap. Cleaned out your savings just to get this first month’s.

Oh well. You can always get more money from somewhere.

More important things right now. “Thank you.” You don’t look at Chelsea. Stare out at the ocean, waves lapping against the rocks.

“Like I said, Alex. You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.” Chelsea rests her arms against the metal railing, feeling the breeze. “I don’t know if you ever really needed my help.”

“But – but I did. I–” You sniff, nosing starting to run. Frown. “Why am I…?” You laugh, rub your eyes. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Chelsea shakes her head, trying not to smile. “You _really_ don’t need to apologize for being happy.”

“That’s– um. Am I?” You chew your cheek. “Huh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad to finally put this scene to print


	16. Our future plays tricks on us all, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Our future plays tricks on us all, huh?** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDrXMHse2yQ)

Chelsea drops the first aid kit on the kitchen table, popping the lid open. “What were you thinking!?”

You flinch at the tone of her voice. “That his… that his acid spitting ability had to have a refractory period so–”

“ _Alex_.” Chelsea narrows her eyes at you before pulling out a roll of gauze bandage. “Hold out your hand,” You comply and she tuts at the reddened skin. “God, look at you…” Not for the first time, her distress at your injuries is baffling. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

You give a noncommittal shrug, look away to stare at the floor, still intensely aware of Chelsea’s gaze fixed on your face.

Without really thinking about it, Chelsea runs a finger along the scar on her cheek. You can pick up the ghost of a memory of some other fight, some other life of Chelsea’s. Part of you wants to push further, find where the memory hole leads, but… hasn’t Chelsea earned your trust by now, a least a little? It’s… nice that she cares? But _why_? You’re running out of explanations.

“Look, there’s no contesting at this point that you…” Chelsea winces as she starts wrapping a stretch of gauze over your hand and wrist, “you have a talent.”

The look Chelsea shoots you tempers the butterflies threatening to carry you off the seat. Not for the first time wonder if you should tell Chelsea about your telepathy, whether that would help or hurt. But…

When you don’t say anything, Chelsea continues; “Your lucky this is only a minor burn, and that miracle luck of yours isn’t going to hold out if you keep throwing yourself into fights sight unseen.”

This again. “You saw it too,” You whisper, “He was about to attack that man. I had to do something.”

Chelsea finishes wrapping your hand, gently holding your arm as she pins the end of the gauze to stay in place. “Alex, someone else could have stepped in.”

You shake your head, “No, they wouldn’t have.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I–I–I can!” Your heart jumps in your throat at you say it. You’re giving too much away, but– she needs to understand, she _has_ to understand. That the two of you keep having this argument, that she keeps trying to talk you out of this… it makes the sting in your hand feel like nothing in comparison.

“What are you–?” Chelsea pinches the bridge of her nose, and steps back away from the table to glare at the ceiling. She shakes her head. “Sooner or later you’re going to hit something more stubborn than you are, and I…” She cuts herself off, mouth pressed into a grim slash across her face.

“You just admitted I’m good at. He never even hit me really.” You wave your bandaged arm, “This was just from splash.”

There’s a pained look in her eyes and you can’t face it, shift your gaze to your lap. “Oh Lord, you can’t seriously just, expect to _sidestep_ your way through every fight!”

You bite your lip, trace a pattern on your leg. “I can – I can and I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Sidestep]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534378/chapters/48739409)


	17. weak young heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **weak young heart** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mXyl2AY8AQ)

The heat presses in around you, and you’re not sure if the mask over your face is making it harder or easier to breath through the smoke. Something to add to your next costume revision maybe. This quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve done yet, the skinsuit is supposed to be fire retardant, but a burning building is a bit more intense of a field test than you’d have liked.

The building predates the 1980 earthquake and it shows. The way the floor shifts under your feet as push through the blaze makes your stomach lurch. Abandoned office building, part of the city still in ruins… Firefighters will get here eventually, but in time? Will they be able to tell like you can where people are trapped? Where they are in time? Will they even care?

Follow the thread – or, well, you don’t actually know the layout of the building and the fire closes some obvious paths while burning open new ones, so it’s less a path to your goal and a vague compass direction pulling your onwards. Upstairs there’s more smoke, same amount of fire casting everything into a sick yellow orange light. Kick out a door and there!

“Are you alright?” You hold out a gloved hand to the woman curled up on the floor. She pokes her head up and looks at you like you’re crazy. Maybe you are. “Come on.”

She coughs, flashes of fear. “My stuff…”

“I’m sorry, we–we–we need to go _now_.” You reach out to give her mind a gentle mental push. There’s a moment where it seems like it might take something harder, and then she gets up, grabs a backpack in one hand and with the other takes your hand. Swallow the lump in your throat. This is no time to stress over contact, or is it your stress or hers? Both? You grip her hand tight and pull the woman along behind you.

Getting out is easier, just trace your steps backwards. Quick enough that the fire can’t change the path yet. Get to the stairwell, and the hand in yours pulls back.

“I can’t…” The woman glances backwards. Picking up feelings of something else, something left behind. She has her backpack, that’s her ‘stuff’ right? What more could there possibly be?

“We have to go.” You add another gentle telepathic push to your words. You’ve got three flights of stairs to speed down pronto. The building shifts under your feet with some thunderous groan as if to underline your point. That gets her moving again and the two of you are rushing down the stairs.

One flight, two, thr– the building groans around the two of you, something shifts and debris from the collapsing ceiling crashes down blocking the doorway as you swing open the doors. “Fuck.” You pull back from the flames licking around wood boards. A support beam? No, not thick enough. Just part of the floor/ceiling.

You could jump over but can she? You don’t think you can carry her and jump… fuck, fuck fuck. The woman glances at you. “I’m thinking!” You hiss. Hold out your hands, stare down the debris, as if you could will it to clear itself. But you’re telepathic, not telekinetic. Can you… kick a path without disturbing more debris to fall down? No. No, don’t be ridiculous.

Wait. Of course. Idiot, why didn’t you think of it earlier? You grab the woman’s hand without ceremony and drag her back up to the second flight. “Change of plans.” There, where the stairs switch back, the window. “We’ll jump out here.”

“ _Jump?_ ” The woman takes a step back, “Are you crazy?”

“I– it’s not even a full story up. We’ll be fine.” Is there a way to open the window? No. Fine. You’ll have to break out. Plant your feet, grit teeth, rear back– pain shoots up your arm and there’s cracks in the window. Great. Try again, another flash of pain but… “Watch out,” is the only warning you offer before a shower of thick shards of glass rains down. You shake out your hand, making note of the little cuts into the glove before sweeping the glass out of the frame.

She looks between the window and you. Have to will yourself not to flinch away.

“It’ll be f–f–fine,” You lie. Or, well, you hope you’re not lying. “See, we’re not that high.” Nothing for it but to jump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Sidestep]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534378/chapters/48739409)


	18. Sidestep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Real Lies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hsaxz6J94Uo)]

You wince as you hit the ground, turn around, coax the woman after you. It takes some mental encouragement but she finally tosses first her backpack down and then lowers herself out the window, letting you catch her.

You did it. Everyone out. Everyone safe. You could just collapse in a pile on the ground. The outside feels freezing in comparison to the heat behind you, and there’s a pained feeling in your lungs as you cough.

An opponent you couldn’t punch and not only is everything _fine_ , you were still able to punch something anyway. See Chelsea? You can handle this. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Well, the building burning down isn’t fine, but everything else will be.

Eventually your hand will stop hurting.

It looks like the firefighters finally arrived while you were inside. Men in bright orange and yellow vests running to hook up the hoses. Whatever happens now is out of your hands.

A small crowd has gathered outside. To the side, someone’s laid down a blanket and two people you’ve already lead through the blaze are sitting there, huddled together. “Are you okay?” You glance back at the woman. In the daylight she looks about Chelsea’s age? Older maybe.

“Thanks.” It’s a mumbled whisper as she lets go of your hand, bringing her backpack up to her chest to cling to as she sits down.

You catch a burst of attention directed your way and freeze up. Time to go, before anyone asks questions you can’t answer. But _damn,_ your lungs hurt and every muscle in your legs are sore and really, why do you need to keep running? Isn’t this what the suit is for, really? There’s nothing anyone can see. No way anyone can know.

“Hey! Hey, hero of the hour!” The voice is light, almost falsetto. It’s owner’s attention boring a hole in your back as you stand rooted to the grass. “You got a minute?”

Maybe… maybe this won’t go terribly? After what you did, people wanting to talk is… natural, right? That’s a thing that normal people do, _right_? You force yourself to turn, “C–can I help you…?”

The woman standing before you is in the unmistakable bright blue of a Ranger’s uniform, save for the hands and feet which have been left exposed. A flash of freckles under eyes crinkled by a huge smile. “You really showed us up today huh?” She thrusts an open hand towards you.

You stare. “…I’m sorry?”

“I’m told a guy in a black and teal get-up got everyone out safe.” The woman leans in with a critical eye. She’s a little shorter than you, but not by much. “That’s you, isn’t? Skinsuit, black and teal hood and jacket?”

You can feel your heart in your chest. God, you’re too tired for this. “Yes…?” You concede.

“Are you new at this? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone in that outfit running around before.”

“Uh–”

“Well, thanks for helping out new guy!” She moves to clap a hand on your shoulder.

It’s a split-second decision stretched out over what feels way too long as her hand closes in.

You flinch, step to the side, slap her arm away.

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you. You stare at her, wide-eyed under your mask. You _hit_ her. Why did you do that? What’s wrong with you? Why?

The woman raises her eyebrows and gives a nervous smile, laughing. “Ooookay, sorry there.”

“I– uh– S-s-sorry!!” Oh god. Oh fuck.

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have assumed.” She offers another, smaller, smile.

You grab at your arms, try to hold yourself together, pressing your fingers into your skin. “I’m so sorry, I just– I…”

“It’s… fine? You’re fine.” The woman holds out her hands as if she might need to catch you. The observation makes you tense up all over again. You should get out of here, get going, move–

“Are you harassing the vigilante, Anathema?” You brush against the mind responsible and recoil from it like a lit stovetop. Sharp, clear-without-being-clear, disciplined. The Directive is here? You’re screwed. They’ve come after you finally. It was only a matter of time. Is it even worth it to try to run?

“Just checking on the hero here, Steel.” The woman turns and you – heart pounding in your chest – follow her gaze to the man in power armor marching towards you.

Power armor? Different make then the standard build. Not the Directive then. A Ranger. A Ranger with military training? Military training and power armor and he’s looking down at you and god you want to run but you can’t. Stand your ground. The moment you run you won’t belong. These people aren’t a danger to you. Not yet anyway. Not as long as you don’t treat them like a danger. That’s the trick.

“So,” the man says, “I understand you got everyone out.”

You make yourself nod. Without really thinking about it, you rub your hand. Feel the little sparks of pain from where your knuckles took the force of the hit.

“You did good work. Every second counts in a situation like this.”

You’re lucky your mask covers your face. _Praise_ is definitely not an outcome you had prepared for.

“Next time however, leave it to the professionals.” Oh. There we go. Normality restored. “You’re lucky everything went smoothly. You could have just as easily made things worse by rushing in.”

The woman raps a hand against his arm. “ _Steel!_ ” Eyebrows furrowed.

The man frowns. “Still,” he appends, “good job.”

You glance back and forth between the two, a twinge of irritation poking out as the fear slowly evaporates.

“Oh!” Anathema gestures herself and the man in power armor. “I’m Anathema by the way, if you didn’t already know. And grumps here is Sergeant Steel.”

“Ah.” You say.

The silence between the three of you stretches out and you feel increasingly awkward. What are they expecting from you?

“Excuse me! Excuse me, do you have a moment?”

You turn towards the source of the noise. Behind you, the man in power armor snorts. “Here we go again.”

A short man in a tall hat holding a tape recorder pushes past two women milling about on the sidewalk as he makes his way to the three of you. “José Diasz, Burbank Times reporter, can we talk for a minute?”

You stare at the man. This is new. Glance at the two Rangers. “Um?”

The woman steps forward, between you and the reporter. You allow yourself to relax a little. Let the bubbly woman with the too big smile handle this. The actual emergency is done. You just need to bide your time until you can make an exit. “Hi, Anathema of the Los Diablos Rangers, what can I do for you?”

“Actually,” The reporter peers around her, and you tense up again. “I was hoping to speak to the man in the black and teal costume?”

“Oh?” The woman, what was her name? Anathema? Anathema steps back and glances at you. “You want to take this?”

You freeze. Definitely can’t run now. Take a breath, focus, act like you belong here. “Um. Hi? Also,” you take a breath, “I– I’m not a man.”

The reporter takes it in stride, “Oh, of course, my apologies miss.”

Wow. That was… incredibly easy. Terrifying but easy. It must be the suit. Everything’s already hidden anyway. Yet another point in its favor. Maybe… you allow yourself a grin. Maybe this won’t be so bad?

“Now, is it true you single-handedly carried five people to safety?” The way the man wields the tape recorder in his hand makes you nervous.

“Uh, well…” You avoid the reporter’s face. “I–I–I didn’t _carry_ anyone. They w–walked. Or… jumped, I guess. I just… um, helped?”

“Still, you’ve been making something of a name for yourself lately, haven’t you? The neighborhood has definitely felt the lost of Overnight in the past year. Are you intending to pick up where he left off?”

You blink, bewildered. Overnight? Oh yeah, the guy who got hurt and retired. “Uh, I’m just– well,” you cough into your hand. “Someone had to– uh, do something. I couldn’t– I couldn’t stand by and well… look how long it took the firefighters to get out here…” As you say that, you wince and glance at Anathema and the man in power armor. “No offense?”

Anathema shrugs. The man in power armor doesn’t look amused, but you’re getting the sense that may be just what his face looks like all the time.

“Well! I’m glad someone like you is willing to take up the slack!”

Is this conversation really happening? You can’t pick up any duplicity or sarcasm from the reporter. “Um… thank you?”

“Any chance I can get your name? It’ll make all our jobs easier if we don’t have to keep coming up with synonyms for ‘handsome stranger.’”

“Uuuh–” You blow the air out of your lungs, take another deep breath. Swallow the lump in your throat. Pick one face, one mind and focus on that one. Focus on the reporter–

“I’d be interested in knowing that too, actually.” Anathema cuts in.

“The Rangers would.” The man in power armor adds, correcting her.

You bite your lip. It’s one thing to want to get the Ranger’s attention in theory, some hypothetical future. It’s another to actually have their attention in the here and now. Don’t– don’t stress about it. Focus on the reporter’s question. You’d been thinking about this one for awhile, and there’s a certain rush to finally saying it out loud. _Two_ firsts for today, come to think of it. “It’s uh… Sidestep?”

Can’t sidestep your way through every fight, huh Chelsea.

Well–

We’ll see about _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original draft of this is part of [[Sidestep]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534378/chapters/48739409)
> 
> You did it! Thanks for reading. Sorry for dumping all these words on this fandom. I know more long-form stuff isn't really the norm.


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